


as you like it, baby!

by foreground



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Homophobia, Host Clubs, Hurt/Comfort, Lee Donghyuck | Haechan is a Confident Gay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rimming, Spanking, mark lee is a panicked gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-06-30 14:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreground/pseuds/foreground
Summary: He’s a host, after all, and his job is to entertain, to pour drinks and light cigarettes and have semi-intelligent conversation, all while looking pretty enough for patrons to want to come back. His job is to pretend the words spilling from the tipsy salarymen’s mouths are the most profound he’s ever heard, to field complaints about distant wives or demanding bosses, to listen and nod and brush his hand against a knee, to assure them that he is at their service. He’s a salesman - they all are, really - in the business of selling themselves.He doesn’t mind being more or less a product for consumption. He lives for it some nights, even. Others aren’t so lucky.





	1. Chapter 1

Cabaret club Neo City, tucked away on the upper floor of a cramped corner of Samseong-dong, Gangnam, is where men can slip away from the banality and commitments of everyday life and feel loved. It is a place where the drink flows freely, the conversation is lively, and the hosts are always attentive, whether they are first-time visitors or long-time patrons - at least, that’s what Ten Leechaiyapornkul tells other people.

It’s what the owner, Lee Taeyong, had told him was the vision for Neo City all those years ago. It’s true, mostly. There is plenty of alcohol, but you can only have so much of it before security throws you out. The conversation can be lively only if your conversation partner has _some_ idea of how to talk to people. But the hosts are always attentive - they’re supposed to be, anyway. It’s in the job description.

But right now it’s fifteen minutes until opening, and Ten Leechaiyapornkul has a massive headache and a burning desire to be _anything_ but attentive at the moment.

“Doyoungie,” he whines from where his head is placed on the bar. Doyoung keeps wiping around him. “I need something strong if I’m gonna get through the night—”

“When has alcohol ever fixed a headache?” Doyoung cuts him off.

“Plenty of times.”

“So your current headache isn’t alcohol-related?”

Ten musters the strength to pick his head up. Doyoung nonchalantly wipes off the spot where his head had been. They’re not really friends. They could never be, because Ten thinks Doyoung’s got a stick up his ass and Doyoung wants Ten to _think about things before you do them, my God, you’re going to get killed one day and we’ll find your dismembered body out in the dumpster!_ As coworkers, though, they work out fine, even though Ten has to bite his tongue constantly to keep from telling Doyoung that he has _too many teeth for his goddamn mouth, I feel bad for your dentist._ Taeyong doesn’t have the sanity for interventions anymore. At least Doyoung is fun to mess with during boring moments.

“No. Christ, I would love to know what caused it. I’m probably just getting old.”

Doyoung snorts. “We’re the same age, asshole.” He reaches behind the bar for a moment and produces a small bottle of aspirin and a glass of water, then shoves them towards Ten. “Take those and shut up.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Ten immediately perks up, taking two of the white pills and swallowing them down. “Remind me why we haven’t dated?”

“‘Cause Johnny’s got like six inches and twenty pounds on me and I’ve seen him when he’s angry,” Doyoung says dryly, and Ten nearly chokes.

Ten isn’t dating Johnny. Sure, Johnny is maybe the most attractive human Ten has ever met, and the kindest, and the gentlest. Sure, he’s collapsed into the taller man’s (muscular) arms more than once and drunkenly (semi-seriously) proclaimed his love for him too many times to count. Sure, most nights of the week Johnny fucks him thoroughly into his mattress (or a couch, or a wall, or wherever they happened to land) until Ten sings his name like a hymn and falls apart, but they aren’t dating. He feels his head throb again. God, one day he should just tell Doyoung he looks like a goblin when he smiles and stop being so fucking polite.

“We’re not — never mind.” Ten pushes the bottle back towards Doyoung. “Thanks for this.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ten!”

Over at a booth near the front of the club, Taeil is gesturing to him. Ten rubs at his temples and ambles over, taking a seat with the rest of the hosts.

“Nothing too out of the ordinary today,” Taeil starts, “just do what you came here to do. Jaehyun’s out sick today but I’ve already called his regulars. If they show up, you know, give them a good time anyway.” He gives everyone sitting in front of him a once-over, then nods. “All right, we open in five. You know where to find me.”

With that, he turns and takes his place at the front of the house. Being the floor manager is a difficult job, Ten knows that much, but Taeil is calm and level-headed to the point it would almost be eerie. Almost eerie, as in, Ten has seen aggressive and drunken patrons who got too belligerent or handsy with a host get thoroughly humiliated by Taeil for other customers to see, then swiftly ejected from the club. Despite his compact stature and unassuming exterior, Taeil is deeply protective of the hosts, and for that Ten is grateful. Good managers are hard to come by. He continues to massage his temples, hoping to find at least a little bit of relief before the doors open. A firm hand places itself on his back.

It’s Johnny. Speak of the goddamn devil. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts.” Ten lets himself lean into Johnny’s touch, slipping into English without a second thought. It was routine for them - both were far more comfortable in it than Korean. “I took something for it, though.”

“Well, if it doesn’t get better, let me know.”

“Why would I let you know when Taeil’s the manager?” he replies teasingly, craning his neck to look up at him. “What are you gonna do, eject my headache?”

“I would if I could,” Johnny says, and the smile he gives Ten almost makes him feel better. “I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“You always did love to watch, _waan jai_ ,” Ten drawls, changing languages again to his mother tongue just to feel the way Johnny’s fingertips sink into his back.

“I do.” Johnny looks like he’s about to say something else when Taeil calls across the room again.

“Youngho, Ten, it’s almost time. And stop speaking English, I can’t eavesdrop on you that way.”

Johnny’s hand leaves his back and Ten mentally curses Taeil. “I’ll see you later?”

He phrases it like a question, but Ten knows it’s anything but. “Yeah.”

The doors to the club open a minute later and Ten pushes past the still-present pounding in his head and the dull ache of desire in the pit of his stomach.

He’s a host, after all, and his job is to entertain, to pour drinks and light cigarettes and have semi-intelligent conversation, all while looking pretty enough for patrons to want to come back. His job is to pretend the words spilling from the tipsy salarymen’s mouths are the most profound he’s ever heard, to field complaints about distant wives or demanding bosses, to listen and nod and brush his hand against a knee, to assure them that he is at their service. He’s a salesman — they all are, really — in the business of selling themselves.

Ten doesn’t mind being more or less a product for consumption. He lives for it some nights, even. Others aren’t so lucky.

“Welcome to Neo City,” Taeil spouts his usual greeting as the doors open, accompanying it with a short bow.

“Welcome,” Ten and the other hosts echo in unison from where they’re lined up on either side of the door.

It isn’t long before one of his regulars comes through — Mr. Kang, a forty-something executive who likes fruit wine and the way Ten sounds when he calls him _hyung_. Doyoung is thankfully perceptive enough to send a bottle over to their table before Mr. Kang can even take off his jacket. Still ignoring his headache, Ten gives him his best, perfectly practiced smile as he uncorks the bottle and starts to pour it out into their glasses.

“I was wondering when you were coming to see me, hyung,” he says airily, which is a lie. Mr. Kang comes every Thursday night as soon as he leaves work. He’s done that for the past year.

“Did you miss me?”

“Of course. But I’m always happy when you come by.” Ten reaches over to light his cigarette for him, delicately touching his jaw as he does so. He doesn’t smoke himself, but the embossed, golden lighter he carries was a gift from Johnny. _Someone like you shouldn’t be using a Zippo_ , he had explained, pressing it into Ten’s hand. It was left behind by a particularly rich and forgetful patron, he had claimed, but the hesitation in his voice made Ten think something else was at play. Still, he didn’t push the subject, and keeps the lighter tucked into his suit pocket.

Mr. Kang has already started talking about something that ticked him off at work, and Ten half-listens, nodding all the while and taking small sips of the wine. His eyes drift across the club - there’s Jungwoo, ever bubbly and baby-faced, sitting very close to a patron in a far booth and giggling; Yuta talking animatedly with one of his regulars; Donghyuck, just stepping out of their dressing room with what looks like glitter along his cheekbones. His gaze unconsciously goes to Johnny, still standing by the door. Johnny with his crisp suit — well, they were all wearing suits, but Johnny fit in his particularly handsomely — and slicked-back hair, met Ten’s eyes from across the room and —

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Ten asks, snapping back to the man sitting in front of him.

Mr. Kang stubs out his cigarette. “I said, would you like to dance?”

“Oh, I’d love to.”

Ten hadn’t become the club’s top host, maybe one of the best in Samseong-dong, for no reason. His dance training lent itself well to the job, even when his patrons couldn’t dance for shit, and men were known to come to the club just to watch the way he moves. He catches Johnny’s eye again as he makes his way onto the dancefloor, raises his eyebrows, and mouths watch me because why not, he's in a teasing mood, and Johnny just cracks a small smile back at him.

The song playing over the speakers is one he's heard time and time again, but Ten is a performer if nothing else. His hips sway as if they were always meant to, and he lightly caresses his hand across Mr. Kang’s chest as he moves to the center of the floor. He doesn’t dare glance back to see if Johnny’s still watching him, but he trusts that he is anyway. The beat moves through him and he lets himself go for a moment, allowing his eyes to close.. The little fruit wine that he’d drank was making him pleasantly fuzzy  — he’d never been a strong drinker, one of his only weaknesses as a host. The lights are bright but inviting, glinting off the glasses strewn about the club, off cufflinks and gold watches and lighters, pulling him in closer. It’s only the brush of Mr. Kang’s hand against his arm that brings him out of his reverie. Caught off-guard only for the moment, Ten flashes him that practiced smile again and continues to dance, this time with his eyes open.

If he’s a product, he thinks, at least he’s a damn good one.

* * *

“Your head still okay?”

Ten looks up. Johnny’s finished doing his last sweep of the club floor and let himself into their dressing room, where Ten is carefully removing his eyeliner. 

“Mmm. The aspirin worked.”

“Good. I was fully prepared to rescue you out there.”

“Aren’t you always?” Ten’s earrings fall into his jewelry dish with a satisfying _plink_. “You’re a regular Boy Scout.”

Johnny plays with a couple of Ten’s cologne bottles, pushing them into each other as if capturing chess pieces. The liquid inside bubbles and sloshes. “You like being taken care of.”

With a soft “hmm,” he drops the makeup wipe into his wastebasket and undoes his tie until it’s hanging loosely around his neck. “Fair,” he says, then, without missing a beat, “my place or yours?”

_You’re so assertive, that’s how you got so far,_ Taeyong had told him years ago, when Taeyong was still a host and the lighter in Ten’s pocket was still a Zippo. _How do you always know what you want?_

Ten had just laughed at him then. _It’s not hard. If I want something, I go for it. What else do you want me to say?_

Johnny’s hand finds his back again, this time much lower than it was before. “Flower misses you, so… mine?”

Reluctantly breaking their contact, Ten stands up. “Aww, she does?”

“Yeah, I guess you left a sweater or something ‘cause she took it to her bed and sleeps with it.” Johnny scratches the back of his head, suddenly looking embarrassed, and Ten feels a blush creep up on his cheeks as well. Sure, they left so much shit at each other’s apartments that Ten had to buy another toothbrush for convenience and Johnny had a designated towel, but they still weren’t dating.

“I’ll let her keep it.”

They make their way back out to the club floor, where Taeil and Donghyuck are still sitting around, usually the last ones to leave. Johnny taps on Taeil’s podium as they pass by. 

“Night,” he says, then calls back to where Donghyuck is laying down in a booth, playing with his phone, “don’t get home too late!”

“You’re not my dad,” comes the reply, and Johnny just laughs. 

As they make their way to the train, Johnny slips his arm around Ten’s waist, and Ten lets himself lean into it. “I thought you were ‘training’ Donghyuck.”

“I am. I’ve made him into a good host, but that doesn’t change how he is off the clock.”

“Uh-huh, clearly. Mouthy kid.” 

Johnny’s been at the club almost as long as Ten has, being Taeyong’s first hire for security for the newly opened club.

“I know Muay Thai,” Johnny had said, and as soon as he left, Ten grabbed Taeyong’s arm and hissed into his ear.

“You can’t possibly be thinking of hiring him.”

Taeyong looked at him quizzically. “He’s a good fit. Why?”

“Because he’s so hot and if he works here I’ll never get anything done!”

“Oh, shut it,” Taeyong griped, wriggling out of Ten’s grasp. “You go apeshit for any guy over six feet.”

And, Ten thought, watching Johnny unlock his apartment door, he had been a good fit, in more ways than one. Flower bounded happily towards them, wagging her tail eagerly as Johnny toed off his shoes and knelt to scratch at her ears.

“Hi, cutie. I brought your best friend over, but you’ve gotta keep quiet so the neighbors don’t complain again.”

“They’ve been complaining about my girl? Assholes,” Ten says, tossing his jacket over the sofa. “Flower, you’re perfect and no one can tell you otherwise.”

“See, that’s why you like him so much.” Johnny gets up and joins Ten on the couch, with Flower presumably trotting away to go back to sleep. “So what was that you said earlier?”

“Hm? I say lots of things,” he deadpans. The top two button’s of Johnny’s shirt are undone and he can’t stop staring at it. “Be more specific.”

“That I like to watch.”

“Was I wrong?”

Johnny’s hand finds his knee, and fucking _finally_ , he’s touching him somewhere other than his back. “Nope. But it gave me some ideas.”

“Care to share them with the class?” Ten leans in and ghosts his lips along Johnny’s jawline, even though all he wanted was to stop teasing and skip to the part with Johnny’s dick instead. Johnny seems to catch onto this, and being the absolute saint that he is, gets his arms around the small of Ten’s back and pushes him into the sofa, gently nudging Ten’s legs apart with a slight movement of his knee.

“Yeah. Let me tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi and thanks for reading my first-ever nct fic! this started as a small idea and will eventually (i hope) turn into a multi-chaptered monstrosity, so stick around! (sorry for the cut to black in this one hehehe, but i didn't want to get to the good stuff too soon)
> 
> this is also unbeta'd, so sorry for any mistakes!
> 
> the rating will go up in later chapters. all of the pairings listed are _main_ relationships and focus will alternate between them, usually with each chapter being dedicated to one. 
> 
> title and concept for this fic are taken from yakuza 0 for the ps4 (yes, really). i highly recommend the game, by the way.
> 
> if you liked it, please leave a kudos and/or comment, your feedback is sincerely appreciated. ♥


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh we're going markhyuck in this chapter baby!! plus a little bit of taeyong focus cause he is the Stressed Dad of this organization
> 
> shout out to everyone who bookmarked and left kudos, i was super anxious about posting this fic but you've given me the encouragement to continue. thank you so much!!

It was the middle of the day when a boy showed up at the doors of the club, hands shoved deeply into his pockets and his curly brown hair a mess, scuffing at the carpeted floor with the soles of his sneakers.

“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet,” Taeil had said to him, but the boy shook his head.

“Uh, I’m actually looking for a job.”

The boy — Lee Donghyuck, as it said on his identification — was only nineteen, but looked younger as he sat across from Taeyong in his office. He said he was already living on his own, but kept tight-lipped about mostly everything else. All he wanted was to work and to answer as few personal questions as possible.

Taeyong studied the boy’s face for a minute. He had a soft, cherubic face and honeyed skin, unusually pretty for someone who otherwise looked like a schoolboy. It was almost enough to make him suspicious, but he kept it to himself for the moment.

“Why work at a host club?” Taeyong asked him carefully. Donghyuck shifted around in the chair.

“Well, hosts get commissions, right? So I’d make more here than some other job?”

“That’s true, but…” Taeyong took off his glasses and rubbed delicately at the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t some after-school position. Most of our clients are men older than you are. They’re demanding, and drink a lot, and I could go on.”

“I know that.”

“And you do realize we do a thorough background check of any potential hires?”

Donghyuck sounded irritated. “Yes. I _am_ actually nineteen, by the way, if you’re so curious.”

Wow, the mouth on this kid. He’d get along well with Ten, although the thought of those two together is enough to stir the rumors of a migraine. “Let me back up a little, Donghyuck. Why our club over the others? Just this part of Gangnam is full of them.”

“I tried the others. Club Exoplanet said I was too young, The Velvet Room is women-only… so, I’m going down the list, I guess.”

The nature of a host club meant a steady stream of people at the door and on Taeyong’s phone clamoring for jobs, mostly desperate younger men looking for an easy way to make money that didn’t involve standing behind a counter or being more or less an indentured servant. Being a host is far from easy, however. It is a delicate art, fashioning oneself an elaborate persona for the purpose of entertaining others and keeping them coming back. Most new hires burn out within a month, having grown tired of putting on the mask and feeling like a glorified whore night after night. If it were that easy, Taeyong would still be a host himself. There was another host from when he had still worked at Club Coex — a quiet, handsome guy named Hansol — who broke down in the middle of serving a patron, knocking a wine bottle to the floor and screaming that he couldn’t take it any longer. Taeyong remembered the glint of broken glass and the lull that came over the entire club, even the upper floors, and staring at his hands and wondering, _could that have been me?_

He looked Donghyuck over once again. He didn’t look desperate - if he was, he would be a damn fine actor. More… determined? There was a certain fire in the boy’s eyes that Taeyong couldn’t quite place. Should he reject this boy outright, Taeyong had the feeling that he would keep going and moving and trying to grasp at what he could, even if it meant going right up to the manager of one of the most respected clubs in the city and asking in no uncertain terms for a job. Would it be worthwhile to give him a chance?

Apparently, yes. “All right, Donghyuck.” He reached into his desk and placed a thick packet in front of the boy. “Fill this out and bring it back, if it checks out we’ll call you for a formal interview. Sound good?”

Donghyuck flipped through the application and nodded, putting it carefully into his backpack. “Yes. Thank you.” He stands up and bows deeply to Taeyong, a glimmer in his eye that wasn’t there before. “I’ll be back soon.”

He turned to leave, but not before Taeyong called out to him. “Oh, and Donghyuck?”

“Yes, Mr. Lee.”

“You can still walk away.”

Donghyuck just smiled.

“Why would I do that?”

* * *

It’s the middle of the evening when a young, well-dressed man stumbles through the doors of the club, being dragged in by the arm and loudly protesting in English.

“Yukhei, I swear—”

“It’s just a host club, Mark,” gripes the young man’s companion. “I go here all the time, come on! It’s fun! There’s this—”

“Welcome to Neo City,” Taeil greets them coolly, though he keeps an eye on the man who is currently trying to wriggle out of the other’s death grip. “Mr. Wong, it’s good to see you again. Jungwoo, if you would?”

“Yukhei,” Jungwoo calls, appearing at his arm seemingly out of nowhere and smiling brightly. “I’m so glad you came to see me!”

Yukhei lets go of Mark so suddenly that the shorter man stumbles a bit. “Hi, cutie. Sorry about my friend here.”

“Oh? Would you like him to come along?”

“Nah, I want you to myself today.” He walks off with Jungwoo, leaving Mark stuttering and clinging to Taeil’s podium like a lifeline.

“I take it you haven’t been here before, sir?” Taeil states the obvious, pulling his podium very slightly so the man’s sweaty hands slip off of it.

“Uh, no.” Mark coughs awkwardly. “Never. I mean, I know what you guys do, I’ve just never… um…”

Taeil resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, we hope your first experience here is enjoyable. I’m sure you don’t need an explanation.” He hands Mark their list of hosts, which he has to shove at him a few times before Mark finally realizes he has to take it. “Most of the hosts there are on staff today, just let me know if there are any you are interested in.”

Mark gapes at the sheet. Pictures of the most attractive men he’s ever seen in his life are neatly arranged into rows, each with a name and age typed in small, delicate font beneath it. He looks back up at Taeil, who is actively biting his tongue and digging his fingernails into his palm to keep from laughing.

“I just… pick… one?”

“Yes, you— actually, wait there just one minute, sir.” He turns and walks well out of Mark’s earshot behind a column and gestures to Donghyuck sitting at the bar. 

“Donghyuck, come here, please.”

Donghyuck hops off the barstool and makes his way over. “Yes?”

Taeil waves in Mark’s direction. “This guy here is having a small crisis and has never been to a host club before, so could you just… try to make him comfortable?”

Donghyuck blinks at him. “Why me?”

“Because… I don’t know, I think he’s around your age. Talk to him about something so he stops panicking.”

“He’s _panicking_? Should he be here?”

“His friend dragged him in, maybe it’s some weird hazing work ritual.” He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he nearly draws blood and barely holds back a snicker. “Please just take him because if I look at him for another minute I’m going to lose it.”

“Ah, hyung, you’re killing me. Fine.”

He makes his way over to the club doors, where the guy is just looking around like he’s been teleported to an alien planet. “Hello, I’m Donghyuck,” he says breezily, offering him a bow. “I’ll be at your service.”He lifts his head to smile at him, immediately notices the look of utter confusion and almost fear on the guy’s face, and stifles a guffaw. Jesus, was he straight or something? “Come right this way.”

The guy is somewhat connected to this plane of reality because he follows him, at least, and Donghyuck has the good sense to sit them down in a booth far enough away from other patrons, though he makes sure to give the guy his space as he sits down. “What’s your name, sir?”

“It’s, uh, Mark.”

“Oh, you’re foreign?”

“Um… oh. I’m from Canada. My Korean name is Minhyung, but, um, no one uses it.”

“Ma-keu,” Donghyuck rolls the syllables in his mouth, as if tasting them, and doesn’t miss how Mark’s blush deepens. Sometimes straight guys are the most fun to tease. “Are you older than me? Should I be calling you hyung?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“I’m nineteen, so yes, hyung.”

“You’re nineteen?” Mark’s brow furrows. “Shouldn’t you be, like… in college?”

Donghyuck smiles despite how sick he is of hearing that question. “Maybe one day. But not now.”

For all his nervousness, Mark seems to realize that he struck a nerve and looks away. _Conversation, Donghyuck, make conversation!_

“So how does a guy from Canada end up in Gangnam, Mark-hyung?” Might as well go for the obvious.

“I’ve been here since I was a teenager.” At least he stopped with the “ums.” “Where I work likes that I can speak English, pretty much.”

“And your friend?” Donghyuck peers over the booth and nods towards Yukhei, who’s shed his jacket and tie and is getting champagne poured into his mouth by a giggling Jungwoo. Mark winces.

“Yeah. He speaks English too, so we just naturally drifted together. I had no idea he was a regular here, though…” He cranes his neck. “Is he going to drink that whole thing? We have work tomorrow.”

“Probably. You’d be surprised.” Yukhei, at least to Donghyuck, is a man who neither skimps on alcohol nor spending money, often ordering champagne towers seemingly for the hell of it, easily racking up millions of won in charges. Donghyuck would almost be envious of the sheer amount of money Jungwoo earns from Yukhei alone, but isn’t sure he’d have the energy to keep up with all… that. “He’s a fun one.”

“Have you—” Mark’s eyes are wide. “Have you, uh, served him?”

“No, he’s been Jungwoo’s regular since he first started coming here.” 

Mark is about to say something else when Yukhei takes notice of them and shouts across the club. 

“Mark! Don’t leave that pretty boy hanging!” 

“I’m not—” 

“I’ll pick up your bill if that’s what you want! C’mon, loosen up!” 

Donghyuck catches Jungwoo’s eyes and mouths _what is going on_. Jungwoo just shrugs, smiles, and leans into Yukhei’s arm draped around the back of his chair. Helpful.

Sputtering, Mark turns to Donghyuck. “Sorry, he… doesn’t know when to shut up sometimes.” 

“Believe me, he’s a regular, I know.” He tilts his head. “But if he’s going to pick up your bill, you might as well drink, yes?” 

“I… guess so? Soju’s fine.” 

“I’ll be back in a second, then.”

He can feel Mark’s eyes on his back as he heads back over to the bar, where Doyoung is scowling in Yukhei’s general direction. 

“Bottle of soju. You really hate him, huh?”

Doyoung hands him the bottle and two glasses without even needing to look. “He’s just… very touchy. With Jungwoo.” 

“Youngho-hyung is right there, you know.” 

“No, it’s not that.” He turns away to refill the ice, or at least pretend to. “Never mind.” 

“Ooookay.” Knowing better than to ask Doyoung too many questions, Donghyuck backs away from the bar and returns to Mark, who has at least taken a leaf from Yukhei’s book and taken off his jacket, leaving it folded on the seat next to him. He pours them both shots and, as Mark swallows his down, takes a second to look at him. He’s handsome, boyishly so, though there’s a certain faraway, tired look in his eyes that Donghyuck can’t pinpoint. The watch on his wrist and the tie around his neck seem almost like a costume, like they’re too big for him — though, Donghyuck admits, he could say the same about himself. 

“You’re a host,” Mark says lamely, startling Donghyuck.

“Yes, hyung.”

“So you do what hostesses do except you’re a guy.”

“Yes.”

“Why…” Mark makes a vague, sweeping hand gesture, “…do this? I’m not judging you, I’m just—”

“I like entertaining people,” Donghyuck interrupts before Mark’s nervous mouth can run any more, “and I’m good at talking if that’s what my patrons want. Plus, according to your friend, I’m pretty.”

Mark coughs, nearly dropping his glass, and Donghyuck revels in seeing the tips of his ears turn red. “Uh. I mean… yeah, um, you are. I-I guess.”

“Oh, you’re a charmer!” Donghyuck crows. “I’ve never been told that I’m ‘pretty, I guess’ before.”

“Sorry! Sorry,” comes Mark’s choked reply. “I don’t know what I just said. Ignore me,” he mutters, adding on a desperate, “please.”

“You’re cute. Even though you’re my hyung, you’re cute.”

God, he might actually be killing Mark. “Ah… thank you,” he says into his glass.

They eventually finish the bottle in relative silence, Mark probably too embarrassed to say anything more and Donghyuck unwilling to have a patron dead of a heart attack on the club floor. At least, Donghyuck figures he should give him some time to recover before opening his mouth again.

“What do you do for work?” he asks after a few minutes.

“Yukhei and I are at a record label.” He shrugs. “It’s all right.”

“Do you make music?”

“No, I wish.” Mark reaches over to fiddle with the empty bottle, peeling at the label. “I’m kind of hoping I can… rise through the ranks, so to speak.”

Huh. There was more to him than Donghyuck thought. “Music must be your passion, then.”

“Yeah. It always has been.” The remnants of the sticker are being shredded into a tiny pile in front of him.

“I, um,” Donghyuck starts, then hesitates — how much should he share? “I used to sing. Like, in school and stuff. I really liked it, but, you know, things happen.” 

Mark looks at him questioningly and now it’s Donghyuck’s turn to feel embarrassed. “What kind of things?” 

“I don’t know. Needing to find a ‘real job,’ I guess.” 

“Oh. I get it. But you’re too young to give up on yourself like that, I think. Not to sound like some after-school special.” 

The lights suddenly feel too hot for Donghyuck. _Reel it in, reel it in, before it gets too personal._

“Thank you, hyung,” he says softly, then clears his throat. “Did you want more soju?”

“Actually, I should probably rescue Yukhei over there and get him home before he makes a fool of himself.”

True to form, Yukhei is on what is probably his second bottle of champagne. Somehow he’s still sitting upright, with Jungwoo cuddling into his side and talking to him about something. Mark strides over to politely interrupt — “we have work tomorrow, man, I do not need you to be hungover when we have that meeting” — and as Yukhei is trying to figure out how to put on his tie correctly, comes back to Donghyuck.

“Um… tonight was nice, actually. Thanks. Sorry for freaking out on you, uh, I don’t know how many times.” 

Donghyuck gets up. “It was my pleasure. Will you come again?” 

Mark is quiet for a moment. “Maybe. Yeah,” he says, and Donghyuck feels something flutter inside of him.

The club is nearing closing time and, aside from a few stragglers, Mark and Yukhei are among the last ones out. Yukhei shout-mumbles something at Jungwoo about coming back soon, to which Jungwoo just smiles again and bows, and Mark meets Donghyuck’s eyes. 

“Good night, hyung,” Donghyuck bows, and when he lifts his head Mark is gone. 

“You are a gem, Donghyuck,” Taeil says, locking the doors. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy, but thank you for dealing with that.” 

“Soju does work wonders,” he responds, making his way back to their dressing room, where Jungwoo is sitting at his mirror. 

“How was Yukhei’s friend?” 

Donghyuck tugs at his stool until Jungwoo moves off it. “Fine. Pretty awkward, but he said he had a good time.”

“Don’t you think he was cute? He could have been fun, but Yukhei wanted me all for himself.” He scoots back over to Donghyuck’s mirror and looks at him. “Do you think he’ll be back?”

“Maybe,” Donghyuck says coolly. “He said he would.”

“Ah, if he wants to be your regular, I won’t steal him.”

“Who knows? But…” He trails off.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Donghyuck picks the makeup wipe back up and keeps rubbing it in circles on his face. “I just… hope he comes back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter we'll finally get to dowoo cause 1. it's time and 2. dowoo nation where you at!!
> 
> again, leave a kudos/comment if you liked it, i would appreciate it so much!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're back! i'm updating much faster than i anticipated but that's never a bad thing in my book, especially since i'm excited to finally be writing dowoo.
> 
> warning for attempted physical/sexual assault in this chapter, if you'd like to skip it, don't read past the second line break.

It's not that Doyoung hates Yukhei.

It would be in poor form, he thinks, to hate someone he hasn't even had a conversation with. It would certainly offend his mother's delicate Christian sensibilities. No, he doesn't hate Yukhei, but he does hate the way Jungwoo is snuggled under his arm, face flushed and giggling. He hates the way he can hear Yukhei calling him "cutie" and "baby" and the way Jungwoo calls him, once he's a drink or two in, "oppa."

Is he jealous? Probably.

Will he ever do anything about it?

"Is it really that dirty?"

Doyoung looks down and realizes he's been polishing the same glass for the past who-knows-how-long. "Whoops."

Jaehyun frowns at him from where he's leaning against the bar. One of his regulars just left and he's taking some well-deserved time to rest before the next one inevitably comes in. "You worry me sometimes."

"About what?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's just cause you have serious resting bitch face." He glances over his shoulder and follows Doyoung's line of sight. "And also cause you've been staring at Jungwoo all this time."

"He just... happens to sit directly in front of me most nights," Doyoung tries, turning his attention to the beer taps, but Jaehyun knows better than that.

"Do you have a problem with him?" he asks, lowering his voice. "He's a sweet kid."

"No! No, I don't. Where did you even get that from?"

"Hmm," Jaehyun hums, and Doyoung glares at him as if wishing to spirit him out of existence. "You've got some things to sort out, hyung."

Before Doyoung can exclaim that _no, there's nothing to sort out, Jungwoo and I are fine, we're fine, stop making stuff up_ , Jaehyun wiggles off the barstool to greet another patron who's just come in, leaving Doyoung clutching another glass a little bit too hard.

No, he'll probably never do anything about it, because Doyoung is apparently only good at making drinks and repressing his feelings.

* * *

Jungwoo had been dark-haired the day Taeyong brought him downstairs to introduce him to the rest of the staff as a new hire, and the way he bowed enthusiastically to Doyoung with a "Nice to meet you, I'm Jungwoo! Please take care of me!" made him wonder _where the fuck did Taeyong find this... strange, beautiful puppy?_

A day later, on his first official night as a host, Jungwoo was bright blond, and he slid into the barstool across from Doyoung as if he had always belonged there.

"Hi, Doyoung-hyung."

Doyoung peeked over from where he was restocking the glasses under the counter. "Oh, hi."

"Do you like my hair?" Jungwoo pointed to his head as if it wasn't obvious. "I just got it done last night."

"Yeah, it's nice."

"Have you ever dyed your hair, hyung?"

Evidently, no one had pulled Jungwoo aside yet and told him that Doyoung was not exactly the most receptive to off-the-cuff personal questions. "Never thought about it."

"Really?" Jungwoo pouted. "I think purple would suit you."

"Uh... purple?"

"Yeah. I mean, you're really handsome, hyung, so I think anything would look good."

_Who put him up to this?_ was Doyoung's first thought. _Was it Ten? It was probably Ten._

His second thought was _...Did he just call me handsome?_

Taking great care not to drop any of the remaining glasses, Doyoung stood up.

"Er. Thanks," he said pathetically.

"You're welcome!" Jungwoo said way too cheerfully, nodding his head, and took off as suddenly as he came, leaving Doyoung in a daze.

After that, Doyoung learned quickly that no one in the club was safe from Jungwoo's flirting, intentional or not. He liked holding Yuta's hand for some reason, not that Yuta ever seemed to mind. During one memorable occasion, he draped himself over Taeil's lap, whining about being sleepy, making Taeil stutter. _You're really handsome_ , then, wasn't anything special in the grand scheme of things — yet, Doyoung couldn't stop thinking about it some nights. 

Most nights, actually. He was a weak man.

As strange of a creature as Jungwoo was, Doyoung couldn't help but be in awe of him. Within a month of starting at the club, he had already gotten as many regular patrons as Yuta and Jaehyun. He was beautiful, no doubt, to the point that it wasn't fair, but there was something enchanting about him too, something that commanded everyone's attention even when he didn't mean it to.

"It's that look in his eyes," one of his patrons had once slurred at Doyoung, entirely unprompted, "where he makes you feel like you're the only person in the world."

"Animal magnetism" was Ten's less poetic explanation. "He's the ideal bottom!"

"We're all bottoms!" Donghyuck protested, and that was when Taeyong decided that the staff meeting was over.

Still, Jungwoo was a flirt and Doyoung, for all his strength, was not immune to his charms. Even knowing that Jungwoo did it with everybody wasn't enough to stop the twisting in Doyoung's stomach when Jungwoo rested his head on his shoulder when he was tired after a shift, or the blush that crossed his face when Jungwoo looked him up and down and murmured, "that suit looks nice on you, hyung." It was as if he was born to be a host, knowing instinctively how to flatter someone, to look at them like they were all he could see, to stop Doyoung's heart with just a smile or a touch or a shy peek through his bangs. 

If it was all a front, well, Doyoung was good at deluding himself, too. 

* * *

The night was winding down and Doyoung, conscious of Jaehyun's words, was making every effort to look everywhere but Jungwoo until closing. Yukhei had already paid his considerable tab and left, and Doyoung didn't dare look to see who was sitting with Jungwoo now. He's always been a bit of the jealous type, but being jealous with someone he isn't dating is a new low. He certainly didn't want Jungwoo to catch onto his staring; God knows it was weird enough for Jaehyun to notice. The last thing he wanted was for—

"No, get your hands off me!" 

Doyoung's head snaps up, his thoughts interrupted, and sees Jungwoo struggling against a man twice his size who's trying to pin him down against the booth by his arms. Jungwoo isn't small by any means, but the guy is nearly bending him in half. His stomach twists into a knot and his legs seem to freeze in place, even though his brain is sounding every alarm bell, _Jungwoo is in trouble, help him, don't just stand there—_

"Youngho-hyung!" Jungwoo shouts in desperation, but Johnny is already there, pulling the guy off Jungwoo and onto the floor. He forces his knee between his shoulder blades and twists one of his arms behind his back, making the man yell and curse in pain.

"Dumb whore," he grits out, and anything else he has to say is swiftly muffled by Johnny wrenching his arm again.

"Are you going to come quietly or do I have to make this harder for you?" Johnny hisses, and the man says something Doyoung can't hear. It seems to satisfy Johnny, though, because he roughly hauls the man to his feet and drags across the club and outside, the doors shutting behind them with a thud that rings through the now-silent room. Taeil, his eyes steely, calmly follows them out. 

He catches a glimpse of blond out of the corner of his eye and realizes that Jungwoo has already taken off to the dressing room. Before too much else happens, he manages to get himself unstuck and follows. 

Jungwoo is sitting listlessly on the couch when Doyoung slowly pushes the door open, not wanting to startle him. He doesn't seem that shaken, but Doyoung reminds himself that Jungwoo is just as good as he is at hiding things.

"Are you all right?" he asks. 

"I think so." 

"Can I sit? You can tell me to fuck off if you want." 

"No, go ahead." Jungwoo scoots over even though there's more than enough room for them both. As soon as Doyoung sits, Jungwoo leans his head against his shoulder, and Doyoung tries his best to stay still even though his heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest.

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

"It's fine, hyung," Jungwoo sighs, and Doyoung has never heard him sound so tired. "That one patron always gave me trouble. He just decided to get physical this time, I guess." He looks down into his lap and swallows. "'Cause I told him I wouldn't sleep with him." 

"Jesus," Doyoung spits, voice full of disgust. "He thought he was entitled to that? To you?"

Jungwoo just shrugs. "A lot of them are."

"Shit, I'm sorry." Then, after a pause, "Does it hurt?"

"Just a little."

"Can I look?" he asks, and Jungwoo nods and sits up, sliding off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. Doyoung suddenly feels like an idiot.

"Wait, uh... you don't have to."

Jungwoo has the audacity to giggle in spite of the situation, and his shirt slips off.

"It's just me, hyung."

In any other context, Doyoung would be thinking about the dip between his collarbones, the gentle curve of where his neck meets his shoulder, thinking about pulling Jungwoo into his lap and tasting his milky skin. But now is not that time, and Doyoung brushes the thoughts aside with a twinge of guilt. Sure enough, angry red marks line Jungwoo's shoulders and upper arms.

"They look like they're going to bruise, don't they?"

"Yeah." Doyoung winces. Suddenly he hopes Johnny had beaten the shit out of the guy on the pavement outside. "Hold on."

He briefly considers going back to the bar, but he doesn't want to leave Jungwoo alone even for a second. Instead, he pilfers Ten's ice bucket and starts wrapping the ice in his handkerchief.

"This'll take the edge off, I hope," he says. He lifts up the makeshift ice pack to put on Jungwoo's shoulder and hesitates.

"Is it okay if I...?" Doyoung gestures awkwardly. "I don't want you to have to hold it there." 

If Doyoung's stiffness is bothering Jungwoo, he doesn't show it and shifts closer, allowing Doyoung to place the ice on his shoulder. He flinches a little — Doyoung's handkerchief isn't exactly ideal — but otherwise stays still. It's the most intimate they've ever been and Doyoung, forgetting himself, gives into the urge to touch Jungwoo's other arm.

Idly, he wonders if Jungwoo's eyelashes had always been that long.

"These might hurt tomorrow," he says, tracing his hand around the harshest of the marks, a finger-shaped imprint. "I'm sure Taeyong will let you have the day off, probably the week—"

"Hyung."

Doyoung looks up, afraid he's done something wrong. "Did I hurt you?" 

"Your hands are soft," Jungwoo says quietly, almost a whisper, and Doyoung wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His first instinct is to apologize — because it always is, when he's with Jungwoo — but Jungwoo bites his lip and moves closer. 

"I've... noticed that you look at me a lot, hyung." 

_Fuck_. So much for trying to be subtle. Doyoung nearly drops the ice but manages to keep his hand steady, though his mind is running a mile a minute trying to think of when he had made it obvious. Jungwoo seems to notice the distress in his eyes and quickly shakes his head.

"It's not a bad thing. I like it."

His hand finds Doyoung's knee.

"I was wondering if..."

He hesitates, draws in a breath, and the door swings open again.

Suddenly Jungwoo isn't touching him anymore, their contact so brief Doyoung wonders if he had imagined it all. Taeyong skitters in and crouches in front of Jungwoo, his eyebrows knitted together.

"Jungwoo, are you all right?" 

"I'm fine. Doyoung-hyung was just giving me ice." 

Taeyong either doesn't notice or doesn't care about the look of panic and confusion on Doyoung's face. "That guy is never going to come near this club again. You just rest up and go home when you feel like it, understand?"

"Thank you," Jungwoo says, and turns to Doyoung. "Thank you too, hyung. I think I'll be okay from here." 

None of Doyoung's thoughts are forming properly. He blinks and nods, getting up from the couch and trying not to trip over his own feet as he leaves the room. The club had mostly emptied out, the commotion seemingly forgotten as the last few patrons finished up their drinks and conversation. His movements are automatic, cleaning the bar and straightening up the bottles. His mind is anything but. 

What was he about to say before Taeyong came in? It could have been something mundane, but Doyoung's knee is still tingling from where Jungwoo put his hand on it, and his "I like it" is still echoing in his ears. They had been so close in that moment, Jungwoo's eyes soft and melancholy as the ice burned a hole in Doyoung's palm. He feels like he's been violently awoken from a dream, like he's just washed up on a distant shore with water in his lungs.

It was a blessing that he was so good at deluding himself, Doyoung thinks, because if Jungwoo had meant what he said, it would be too much for his heart to handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote most of this chapter at work! shout out to my boss who didn't notice at all lol. i'm not super happy with how this turned out (dowoo is a hard ship to write wtf), but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> and thank you again to everybody who's read this/left a kudos/commented, i can't say it enough times but i really appreciate you all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a much longer update than usual cause i both had more free time at work than usual (love getting paid to sit in my office and write fic) and i wanted to put johnten and markhyuck into one chapter. i had a lot of fun writing it, so enjoy!

Despite working until 3 or 4 in the morning most days, Ten can't seem to shake his habit of waking up early. He likes being awake when the sun is still out — the vampire lifestyle had dimmed for him after the first year of being a host, and he's never needed to sleep for very long anyway. Johnny, for all his charms, could sleep through the literal heat death of the universe. Ten remembers at least two separate occasions when he thought Johnny might have died, he slept for so long. Once, when they first started sleeping together, it took Ten dumping a glass of ice water on Johnny for him to even move. Johnny had sat up, disoriented, only to find Ten sheepishly sitting on the bed, cup in hand, asking where he kept the coffee grounds. 

This time, though, Ten gently shakes his arm.

"Get up," he trills, "get up, get up, I won't stop singing until you get up..."

A tired groan escapes Johnny's lips and Ten at least knows he's listening. He bends down to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "I'm making breakfast, so you better get up soon and eat it before it gets all cold and gross."

"Mmhm," Johnny grunts, and Ten can't help but kiss him again before he scoots off the bed and heads to the kitchen. He slips on his apron (it had been a joke at first, but after he got oil on one of his nice shirts and Johnny had to assure his neighbors that nobody was being murdered despite the bloodcurdling scream, he wears it religiously) and gets to work on breakfast. At this point, he knows where everything is in Johnny's kitchen like it's his own, probably even better than Johnny himself. It's not that Johnny is a bad cook by any means, but after a night of throwing out unruly patrons, Ten figures that he needs a break. 

Johnny pads into the room as Ten's turning on the coffeemaker, Flower right on his heels. "God, thank you," he mutters when he notices the eggs in the pan. 

"There's no need to call me God, darling. My name works just as well," Ten says teasingly.

Usually, Johnny would respond to Ten's playful flirting, but he looks away quickly, busying himself with filling Flower's food bowl. Ten shrugs it off as tiredness and turns his attention back to the stovetop. 

The coffeemaker rumbles and Johnny pours out two mugs. He's still quiet as he sits at the table, and Ten is about to say something to fill the silence when Johnny beats him to it.

“So I have a date this weekend.”

All the air leaves the room in that instant. Ten suddenly finds himself winded, his eyes squeezing shut. 

“Oh?” he says, voice oddly calm as he grips the spatula so hard his knuckles turn white. Hopefully he had just misheard Johnny, or for whatever reason he stopped understanding English properly, or...

“Yeah. He’s… also a host. I think you know him, Sehun from Club Exoplanet…?” 

Sehun was well-known in the area for his good looks and popularity at his club, though outside of work he was rather quiet. "You know him personally?”

He can’t help but sound like a nosy spouse. For Christ’s sake, he was standing in Johnny’s kitchen wearing a fucking apron! Anyone on the outside looking in would think they were a couple, but this is not that world, because John Seo wants to make things more complicated than they should be. 

The omelettes crackle in the pan and Ten manages to flip them over before they burn. 

“We were high school friends. We fell out of touch for a bit but we reconnected recently.” Johnny scratches the back of his head, his expression unreadable. “I guess it’s worth a shot.”

“I guess so,” Ten echoes. "When was this?"

"I asked him out earlier this week."

Oh. So this wasn't just Johnny going on one date with someone out of pity or politeness. This was Johnny actually, physically going up to someone and asking them out on a date. This was Johnny asking someone out on the same day he woke up next to Ten. 

The silence hangs over the room again as Ten finally finishes the omelettes, dumping them ungracefully onto plates. He tries to keep his expression neutral as he hands one to Johnny, because he's a host and he's good at pretending, but the mask is slipping fast, threatening to shatter at the next word. Ten's stranglehold on his knife is beginning to make his wrist ache. 

"So if this... date... thing works out," he says tersely after a few uncomfortable minutes, "what does that make us?"

"Ten, nothing's going to change. We'll still be friends."

"Did you forget your cock was in my ass last night?" His voice is so acidic it makes Johnny flinch a little bit. "This isn't about being _friends_ , John."

Except it is, because Ten doesn't know if he'll be able to take it if Johnny actually starts dating this guy. He might as well disappear, take the next plane to Bangkok, leave a note on Taeyong's door that says _I'm sorry, you can keep my last paycheck, I'm running from my feelings_ , because Ten is a deer in the woods and Johnny is standing there, bow drawn, ready to break his heart.

"Okay." Johnny runs his hands over his face and exhales hard. "Clearly, if it works out, we can't sleep together anymore. I thought that much was obvious." 

"I just wanted to hear you say it." Ten stabs a piece of omelette and shoves it in his mouth, because it's all he can do to keep from screaming. 

Flower pads around under the table, oblivious to the tension, and as Johnny gives her a distracted scratch on the head, he frowns at Ten.

“I know that face,” Johnny says, and Ten wants to smack that stupid expression of fatherly concern off him. “You’re mad at me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Ten…”

“John,” he shoots back with a glare. “I’m fine.”

It was the farthest thing from fine. Why would it be anything else? Ten knows it's partially his fault, that he should have told Johnny that he wanted more, that when he kisses him it's real, that when they fuck and Ten puts his hand over Johnny's chest to feel his heartbeat he means it. Maybe Johnny was just dense, or, more likely, Ten was a coward. 

"I'm... happy for you," he lies to soften the blow, though Johnny's look of confusion and hurt is hard, so hard to look at. "I hope it goes well."

"Okay," Johnny says after a moment, and his arrow shoots through the air and lodges itself into Ten's chest. 

There's not much else to do, then, except stagger to his feet and listlessly scrape his plate into the garbage. Johnny's staring into his mug, and there's a tickle in the back of Ten's mind that tells him _you've fucked it all up_. 

"I'll see you at work?" His voice sounds pathetic. 

A slight nod is his only answer, and Ten darts out the front door like the room is on fire. He can't bear to wait for the elevator and takes off down the stairs until he reaches the street. He's not sure when he started running, and is equally unsure of where he's trying to go, but he needs to be away from this strange world he's found himself in. 

The arrow cuts deeper with every step, but if he stops, it feels like he's going to bleed out.  


* * *

"Donghyuck, what did you do with my eyeshadow?"

Donghyuck barely glances away from his mirror. "I'm borrowing it."

Yuta grunts, but the way he's given himself apple hair trying to get his bangs out of his face makes him more cute than annoyed. "I hope you're not using my brush." 

"I'm not." The glittery gold accents Donghyuck's eyes well, and he gives himself a once-over, satisfied with his work. "There, I'm done."  
  
He slides the palette back over to Yuta, who inspects it carefully before using it himself.

Mark hasn't been back to the club in the week since his first visit, and now Donghyuck finds himself nervous before opening every night when he wasn't before. Tonight was no different, and as Donghyuck fixes his collar, he considers if Mark was just being polite when he said he'd return. He can already hear the sound of men outside as he stands by the entrance; it's Saturday and they'll be at their busiest.

"You've been antsy lately," Taeil says.

"Really?"

"You're the first one out of the dressing room nowadays. Are you expecting someone?"

Damn Taeil and his brain. Donghyuck shakes his head. "No. I think I've just gotten faster at doing my makeup."

"Well, that's a good skill to have."

He still doesn't look convinced, but soon enough he's off giving his usual pre-opening spiel to Donghyuck and the rest of the hosts. The doors open after what feels like an eternity.

"Welcome," he says on autopilot, then his eyes widen. "Oh! Mark-hyung?"

Gone is the bundle of nerves that stumbled through the doors before. Mark is dressed the same, but he goes right to Donghyuck with a confident smile. Donghyuck, finding himself blushing, turns away quickly so Taeil's observant eyes don't notice.

"I didn't think you'd come back." 

"I said I would, wouldn't I?" 

"I was starting to think you were just lying to me," Donghyuck jokes, as if he hadn't spent the last week thinking about it. "Would you like to sit?" 

Mark follows him to their usual — Donghyuck figures that he might as well call it that now — booth, where Donghyuck signals for a bottle of soju that gets swiftly delivered to the table. This time, he tests the waters a little bit and sits closer to Mark, who takes off his jacket before sitting closer to Donghyuck in turn. 

"How have you been?" he asks once they both have glasses in hand.

Mark rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and Donghyuck has to force himself not to stare. "Pretty good. Nothing new going on." 

"Well, what do you usually do on weekends?" 

"Catch up on sleep, mostly, or if there's a good concert in the area I go to those. But I figured I should come by today."

Donghyuck wonders where the nervous, shaky Mark went off to, but he decides he likes this Mark better. Perhaps their last conversation had put him more at ease, or he was already used to being attended to by attractive men — he could have gone to another club in the meantime, but Donghyuck would rather not think about that. 

"For a straight guy, you seem very comfortable here now," he teases, deciding to just go right for it, but Mark's face falls.

"Do I really give off that impression?" Mark buries his head in his hands. "Oh my God, Yukhei will never let me hear the end of this." 

Wait, what? Was he not...?

"I'm sorry!" For the first time, it's Donghyuck's turn to be a stammering, apologetic mess. "I just made an assumption, that was so rude of me—"

Mark waves his hands, apparently caught off-guard by Donghyuck's uncharacteristic disquiet. "No, no, I don't blame you! I'm bi, though I only figured it out, like, last year."

"I need to stop assuming things," Donghyuck whines. "You were just so nervous that I just... figured." 

"Yeah, that's why I was so... what do they call it? Gay panic?" Mark laughs quietly despite Donghyuck's mortified expression. "I was kind of gay panicking last time I was here, but that's because I'm not used to getting hit on by guys yet." 

"Shit, I had no idea, I'm sorry. I thought you were just fun to mess with." Donghyuck has to hurriedly pour himself another shot and down it to try and chase away the embarrassment. 

"Well, I'm sure I am. I haven't gotten any better at flirting back, though." 

Donghyuck stares at him for a moment. Nervous Mark wasn't quite gone, apparently, because he's back to blushing. "Flirting...?"

"When I said you were pretty, I, uh, actually meant it. Genuinely." Mark looks him in the eye and the fluttering feeling beats back to life in Donghyuck's chest. "You're pretty, Donghyuck." 

It's not that Donghyuck isn't used to being called pretty — sometimes he wishes his patrons would just use a different word already — but the way Mark's voice wraps around the word, like a schoolboy shyly confessing to his crush, is the best thing he's ever heard in his life.

"And you're still cute, hyung," he half-whispers into his glass. 

He wants to kiss Mark, he decides. He wants to kiss Mark so badly, to climb in his lap and cup his face and kiss him, just kiss him and finally know what that mouth feels like. He wants to kiss him, the club's no-excessive-touching rule be damned, because they're sitting so close and Mark is so cute it's torture just being next to him—

A whoop from the center of the club derails his fantasy and Donghyuck looks up to see that the dancefloor is crowded. A song comes on, a departure from what the hosts have dubbed the "typical gay club standards" playlist — it's an 80's new wave classic that Donghyuck loves.

“Will you dance with me?” he asks impulsively, and Mark’s face flushes an even brighter pink.

“I-I’m, uh, not much of a dancer.” 

“It’s okay, neither are half of these people!” 

Mark keeps gaping at him like he did their first night together, but Donghyuck just smiles, getting up from the booth.

“Or you can just watch,” he says playfully. He tosses a coy look over his shoulder as he walks onto the dancefloor, a certain skip in his step. He's nowhere near as skilled of a dancer as Ten, but he stopped caring about that a long time ago. Turning to face Mark, who's still sitting there and blushing, he starts to move, though it's more energetic than sexy. He realizes that he's showing off a bit, but it's worth it for the look of surprise on Mark's face mixed with something else. Was it... interest? Donghyuck wonders if Mark, in that split second, had thought about kissing him too. There would be no reason for him to return if he didn't like Donghyuck in _some_ capacity, and he didn't even consider spending the night with other hosts. He turns back to the middle of the floor, figuring he should probably stop staring poor Mark down as he shakes his hips.

There's a hand on his arm. He turns around to see Mark, who brings his lips to his ear.

"You can't have all the fun," he murmurs, and Donghyuck's heart threatens to burst. 

Mark had evidently been modest when he said he wasn't a dancer, because his moves are sharp and confident. Distantly, he realizes that this is what Mark must have meant when he said music was his passion — the song seems to breathe life into him in a way Donghyuck has never seen before, a small, blissful smile on his face as he allows his eyes to close and his body to follow the rhythm. Donghyuck nearly wants to stop and just watch him, because he's never been in control once this entire time. This entire time, it's been Mark pulling Donghyuck into his orbit, and Donghyuck never wants to leave. He doesn’t think he can.

Mark opens his eyes, smiles at him, and pulls him a little bit closer with a hand on his side, and oh, Donghyuck knows they're onto something different now. The veneer of a simple host-patron interaction is long gone. He can't shake the feeling that he's falling — they're both falling — headlong into something he can't put a name to.

The song is over too quickly for Donghyuck's liking, jolting him from his thoughts, and he's back in the booth with Mark. He pours them both shots immediately, trying to stop his heart from racing.

“Um,” Mark starts after he's caught his breath. “Yukhei told me that you sometimes meet your patrons outside the club?”  


Donghyuck's stomach flips again, and the hand holding his glass threatens to crush it entirely. “Some of us do," he says as casually as possible. "There’s really no set policy about it, except we obviously can't do anything stupid." 

“So, would you… want to meet me then? And not do anything stupid?" 

Mark has apparently made it his mission to get Donghyuck as incoherent and dumbstruck as possible in one night, because Donghyuck forgets every word he's ever learned and just sits there wide-eyed.

Seeing Donghyuck’s flustered expression, Mark backpedals. “You can say no, I swear.” 

"No, I... I would love to," Donghyuck manages to choke out. "I have next Saturday off, actually."

"Cool, we could, uh... I don't know what you usually do for these." Mark pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Can I text you?" 

"Of course." Donghyuck puts in his number and saves his name with a puppy emoji next to it, then hands it back to Mark.

He chuckles. "A puppy, huh? You are so cute." 

Donghyuck squirms in his seat, almost angry at how Mark makes him get this way. "A-Anyway, I'm free during the day, so if you want to actually get some sun, I'd be up for it." 

"Oh. Yeah, shit, I didn't even consider that. You must have a weird sleeping pattern." 

"I'll be awake in the afternoon, don't worry," Donghyuck says, though he knows he'll actually be awake in the morning, stressing out over this... not-date. Mark's concern for his sleeping habits is endearing, though. 

"We'll figure it out," Mark hums, and he puts his arm around the back of the booth behind Donghyuck. It's torture at this point. "I'm up for another drink, if you are?"

* * *

Mark wound up getting an extension on his time with Donghyuck, and Donghyuck derived a certain pleasure from knowing that, even on the busiest night of the week, Mark wanted only to spend time with him. 

"I'm gonna text you, like, as soon as I get home," Mark promised as Donghyuck was seeing him off at the end of the night. "I'm pretty shit at planning though, so tell me if you want to do something specific."

Donghyuck shrugs and smiles. "I'm flexible." 

Mark seems to take "flexible" in a different way for a second, then blinks it away. "Yeah. So, hey, I'll see you next week, then." 

"Good night, hyung," Donghyuck bows, and Mark smiles at him before leaving through the doors. 

Donghyuck manages to stay calm in the ten seconds it takes him to walk to the dressing room and close the door behind him, then immediately dives onto the couch and screams into one of the pillows.

“I hope you used setting spray,” Ten says from behind him. “Otherwise you’re getting your whole face on that nice pillow.”

Donghyuck lets out a muffled whine and kicks his feet. “A patron asked me to meet him outside the club and I’m really nervous.” 

“Ooh, look at you.” Ten moves Donghyuck’s legs and sits on the couch next to him, though he sounds unusually worn out. “First time, right?”

“Yeah.” 

“I assume you wouldn’t have said yes if the guy was a creep.”

“He’s not, hyung, but…” Donghyuck finally takes his face out of the pillow and lets out a shaky breath. “I’m excited for it. That’s what scares me.” 

A shadow crosses Ten's face. "Donghyuck..."

"I know." He wipes half-heartedly at the smudge of gold he's left behind on the fabric. "I don't need a lecture." 

In his heart, Donghyuck knows he's already crossed that invisible line with Mark. Behind that line, he's a sweet, flirty, detached companion, and nothing more. Across that line, though, he doesn't know what he is, or what they are. Falling for a patron is a one-way ticket to hell in this profession, and Donghyuck has one foot on the train already. 

Ten sighs. “Just be careful, okay?"

"I will," he promises, though it feels empty. He turns his head as best as he can to look at Ten. "And what about you, hyung? You look... I don't know. Sad."

"Do I? I'm just tired." Ten gently rubs Donghyuck's back. "Don't worry about me." 

He gets up and goes back to his vanity, and leaves Donghyuck to whine quietly to himself again and wriggle off the couch. His mind is already on next Saturday and what might happen, if anything, between them when they're away from the harsh lights and prying eyes of the club. Most nights, he waits around until he's the very last person to leave, but tonight he scrubs off his makeup as quickly as possible, bids a hasty goodnight to everyone, and heads home.

He's on the train, replaying the entire evening in his head, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.  


_010-xxx-xxxx:_

_hi, it's mark! it was good seeing you_

_010-xxx-xxxx:_

_oh, and if you save my number, put a watermelon emoji next to it_

_010-xxx-xxxx:_

_i'm a watermelon guy_

The next week will be the longest days of his life, Donghyuck thinks. Ignoring that he probably looks completely nuts for smiling so hard at the screen, he saves Mark's number and types his reply.  


_donghyuck 🐶:_

_ok! it's in_

_donghyuck _🐶_ :_

_you better not stand me up_

_donghyuck _🐶:__

_watermelon guy_

_mark 🍉:_

_i would never. you're too cute.  
_

_mark 🍉:_

_i'll see you soon._  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you're so deep in markhyuck hell that the process of writing your own fic puts you in your feelings... also i find it so endearing how ten calls johnny "john" irl so i had to include it, cause the intimacy writes itself
> 
> by the way, markhyuck are supposed to be dancing to modern love by david bowie, since it's a fun song and lyrically i think it fits this entire chapter, not just them. i have a short playlist of songs for this au (mostly gay club jams, cause i write best thinking of jungwoo getting his life to two of hearts by stacey q), which i may clean up and post later if anyone's interested.
> 
> i sound like a broken record but thank you for the kudos and lovely comments and i hope you stick with this fic!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed that the rating has gone up and the “eventual smut” tag is nowhere to be found… i’ll leave it at that. buckle in, kids!

If Doyoung thought his interactions with Jungwoo were awkward before, well, they’ve broken new ground.

Since the night Jungwoo, with his eyes wide and voice soft, had moved closer to Doyoung and nearly asked him a question — one Doyoung is still trying to piece together — it now seemed that Jungwoo was doing everything in his power to avoid Doyoung. No longer did he sit and wait on a stool to spook Doyoung when the latter was distracted doing something beneath the bar, or give him a shy smile and say something about how Doyoung looked handsome, or that he should wear his hair like that more often. There was just— nothing, and Doyoung can hardly stand to be in his own skin most days. 

He thought he hadn’t fucked up. Jungwoo was the one who initiated it, putting his hand on his knee, but now Doyoung can’t help but second-guess himself. Had he gone too far and forced himself into what had undeniably been a traumatic moment? Jungwoo wasn’t any different after that, still cheerful and bright and entertaining patrons, but he hurries past the bar and Doyoung as if they’re both ticking time bombs, brushing past him in doorways with a faint “excuse me,” eyes cast on the ground.

It’s still a couple of hours until opening, and after absentmindedly dropping his third glass already, Doyoung figures it’s time to take a breather. His head’s been a mess the past few days and he hates himself for it, that he can’t stop replaying everything that he said and did like a broken tape. The liquor storage is his usual getaway, a quiet, cramped room down the stairs that barely anyone touches but him. Running his hands over impossibly expensive bottles helped him to clear his mind, and he needs to focus on something else for once. 

The yellow lights flicker on as he finds the switch, shelves of wines and spirits greeting him from where they’re packed together. This is his domain, his seat of power, and if this is what he needs to feel in control, fuck, he’ll take it. There’s a running joke within the club that Doyoung keeps a knife under the bar for people who get too close, who question him or his work, or just ask for their drinks to be stronger. He rolled his eyes when Yuta came up with that one, because of course it had been Yuta, but he wondered if that was really how people perceived him, as cold and controlling. He wonders if that’s what Jungwoo thinks.

 _You didn’t come down here to think of Jungwoo_ , he scolds himself. _That’s the last person you should be thinking of_. His fingers trace the dusty labels of the fruit wines  — maesil-ju, bokbunja-ju — and onto the newer bottles of soju and hongju. He plucks an older bottle of wine from the rack, and suddenly the door shuts behind him. He turns around, nearly dropping the bottle in the process.

Somehow, Jungwoo had managed to enter beneath his notice and is standing just a few feet from him in the tight space. He’s dressed for the night already, though his face is bare, and his expression is the most serious Doyoung has ever seen it.

He swallows hard, managing to replace the bottle on the shelf before his brain can tell him to throw it like a Molotov cocktail and run. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“About what?” he asks, though the black hole in his stomach already knows.

Jungwoo doesn’t move any closer. “The conversation we had the night I got… hurt.”

“All right,” Doyoung acquiesces. The room feels smaller than before and the air heavier. “I’m listening.”

“I’m sorry I ignored you, hyung. I should have talked to you earlier.”

“Why did you ignore me in the first place?”

“Because I — ” Jungwoo falters a bit, casting his gaze aside. “I lost my nerve. I thought I could say all I needed to say to you that night. But… you must have figured it out by now.” 

“No, I haven’t,” Doyoung says honestly, because he’s tired of this headache and trying to tiptoe around it all. “I don’t know what you were trying to say to me.” 

“You…” Jungwoo’s eyes meet his again, and his serious expression has turned to one of shock and almost desperation. “Do I really have to spell it out?” 

“Yes.”

“Fine,” he sighs, and digs the toe of his shoe into the floor like a petulant child. “I like you. A lot. That’s what I was going to tell you.”

Doyoung pauses, letting Jungwoo’s words hang in the dust. All the signs were there, weren’t they? The hand on a knee and the head on a shoulder, whispered adorations, an aside glance… it had all been there, and here Jungwoo was, in his own voice, telling him, revealing his heart as Doyoung’s was aching.

“Oh,” is all he manages to say, and Jungwoo’s eyes seem to cloud over.

“I thought that maybe… you felt the same way.”

He shakes his head. “I do, Jungwoo. Fuck, I do. I’m just… I don’t know. I don’t have the words to say it.”

Jungwoo finally takes a step forward, breaching the bit of space between them. “So… I wasn’t wrong.”

“God, no, you weren’t. You’re all I think about sometimes.” Doyoung runs his thumb over his bottom lip, though he can’t seem to move from where’s backed up against the shelf. “You’re just so touchy with everybody that I — ”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Jungwoo interrupts, moving even closer, and even in the dim light Doyoung can see color on his cheeks, “except I meant it all the times I touched you.”

Doyoung’s heart is beating double-time, so loudly in his chest it’s a small miracle they can’t hear it from upstairs. Jungwoo moves again so he’s nearly pressed flush against Doyoung.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, voice saccharine and shy, and Doyoung thanks whatever gods are out there and listening before he leans in and meets Jungwoo’s demand. Surprising even himself, Doyoung doesn’t kiss Jungwoo like a man starved. Every movement of his lips is gentle and deliberate, like he’s sculpting him, molding and fitting into each curve and dip of Jungwoo’s mouth, like Pygmalion breathing life into the form of his beloved. Kissing Jungwoo feels like the first shaky breath of air after drowning, drowning for so long. Any moment he feels like he’s going to wake up on that shore again, coughing up water, and he needs this to last.

He registers Jungwoo’s hands on his sides for a brief moment, and when he opens his eyes, Jungwoo is on his knees in front of him.

“Jungwoo, what — ”

“Please, hyung,” Jungwoo murmurs, and _holy shit_ , Doyoung now knows why people have begging kinks, “let me?”

They’re at work, stuffed in the dustiest corner of the entire club, and until just a few minutes ago Doyoung swore Jungwoo hated him, yet here he was, on his knees, offering. It’s too fast and not enough at the same time, in the wrong place, just hours before they’re supposed to be back upstairs pretending nothing happened. But Doyoung decides now is not the time to overthink things, because the sight of Jungwoo there biting his lip is making him the hardest he’s ever been in his life.

“Okay,” he breathes, and Jungwoo’s hands move to undo the hook and zipper of his pants, pulling them and his boxers down just enough so they’re bunched around his upper thighs.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long. You’ll tell me if you think we’re going too fast, right?” Jungwoo has the audacity to giggle as he strokes him.

 _A bit late for that_ , Doyoung thinks, but nods. “Yeah. I’m just surprised.”

Jungwoo gives a little lick to the underside of his cock and Doyoung groans embarrassingly, though he catches himself midway and tries to turn it into more of a quiet grunt. The last thing he needs is for someone, anyone, to discover them. He doesn’t need yet another moment with Jungwoo to be interrupted.

“I wish we could be louder in here,” Jungwoo murmurs, lips brushing against him. “You sound so nice…”

The licks continue moving up the length of his shaft until they reach the tip. Jungwoo wets his lips and slowly begins taking him inside his mouth, making a soft _mmm_ sound. Doyoung knows Jungwoo’s innocent persona, the one he watches night after night from the bar, is an exaggeration, a fantasy for his patrons to go home and get themselves off to. Yet, as Jungwoo takes more and more of him, he thinks of how, really, no one should look that cute while sucking a dick. His mouth is warm and soft, though Doyoung hadn’t expected anything else, and his hand works him so well he feels a pang of jealousy towards whoever Jungwoo had done this to before.

Jungwoo glances up at him and the sight is almost too much for Doyoung. His hair, which had been perfectly coiffed before, was starting to fall into his eyes. He takes his mouth off him, lips shiny with spit.

“Is it good?” he asks, like it’s even a fucking question.

“God, of course it is. I’m not going to last long, you know that.”

“Then…” Jungwoo tilts his head. “Can I ask you to fuck my face?”

The night could not, at this point, get any stranger.

“Do you want me to — really?” he stutters, and Jungwoo nods insistently. 

“I trust you.”

“Okay, um…” He realizes he sounds dumb and that he should just shut up, that his awkward fumbling is terribly unsexy, but he’d rather be that than hurt Jungwoo in any way. “If it’s too much, just… tap my leg or something.”

Jungwoo nods again, though the look in his eyes is almost daring Doyoung to do it. His lips part slightly, fingers curling around Doyoung’s calf to steady himself, and Doyoung takes it as the invitation to start thrusting shallowly. He’s never done this before — none of his previous partners were particularly adventurous, and Doyoung isn’t the type to push things in the bedroom— and he’s mostly focusing on not choking Jungwoo. It feels amazing, though, and he doesn’t cut off his moan as Jungwoo makes a little gagging noise around his cock.  He’s keenly aware again that someone could walk in at any moment, that the noises have gotten loud enough that it would make anyone suspicious. For once in his life, though, he doesn’t care. Doyoung doesn’t care, and it’s a fucking revelation. 

Jungwoo coughs a bit, and Doyoung is about to stop when his hand tightens around his leg, telling him to keep going. Emboldened, Doyoung winds a hand in Jungwoo’s hair and holds it, not tugging it or pulling him closer, and Jungwoo moans in response. His entire face is red and he’s breathing harshly through his nose, his mouth on Doyoung’s cock making wet, filthy noises where it’s pressing against the back of his throat.

“Look at you,” Doyoung says under his breath, barely even aware of what he’s saying. “Why didn’t we do this earlier, you’re so — ”

A particularly sharp thrust punctuates his words, and Jungwoo frantically taps the side of his leg, making Doyoung let go of his hair. Eyes shut, he pulls off and coughs again.

“Sorry. Fuck.” Doyoung runs his hands over his face, having not realized how close he was to coming until Jungwoo stopped. When Jungwoo’s mostly caught his breath, he leans down, cupping his cheeks and kissing him, tasting his swollen lips.

Jungwoo shakes his head, panting in between kisses. “I liked it,” he whispers, and when Doyoung looks down, he sees Jungwoo’s hand inside his own pants, palming himself. It doesn’t seem to be the foremost thing on his mind, though, because he goes back to stroking Doyoung with his free hand. He puts his mouth on him again soon enough, and Doyoung lets his arms fall at his sides. Jungwoo has dropped all pretense of teasing him, bobbing his head so quickly that it brings Doyoung back to the edge of orgasm. He’s never seen Jungwoo, always so calm and unflappable, this desperate, and he thinks of how he always wants to be able to wreck Jungwoo like this.

Jungwoo moans around his cock, the hand stroking himself moving faster, and Doyoung has to grip the shelf behind him to keep himself steady.

“I’m close,” he grits out, expecting Jungwoo to pull off, but he just moans again in response. The realization dawns on him that Jungwoo is going to let him come in his mouth, and his mind goes blank.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish after that. Jungwoo gently strokes him through his climax, swallowing him down completely. Doyoung’s knees give out then, and he immediately pulls Jungwoo into a kiss, not caring that he just came in his mouth and that in any other circumstance he would find it gross. He gropes blindly for Jungwoo’s hand on his cock, replacing it with his own.

“Let me,” he murmurs, echoing Jungwoo’s earlier words. Jungwoo shivers as Doyoung starts stroking him hard and fast, and he comes quickly, sighing a quiet “ _hyung_ ” into his mouth.

For the second time with Jungwoo, Doyoung finds an actual use for his handkerchief, using it to wipe off his fingers once he’s gotten his rational mind back. As he’s tucking himself back into his pants, Jungwoo leans forward and nestles his head against his shoulder.

“Hyung?” he says.

“Yes?”

“I really like you.”

Only Jungwoo would blow somebody and tell them afterwards that he likes them. Doyoung, used to these idiosyncrasies by now, kisses the crown of his head. “I do too.”

“I just thought it was so obvious.” Jungwoo turns a bit so he’s speaking more into Doyoung’s neck. “I’m touchy with everybody, yeah, but I only called you handsome, like, every day.”

Doyoung hums, hands coming up to rub at Jungwoo’s back. “Well, I’m stupid, you know.”

“You’re stupid and you’re cute,” he whines. “You act so grouchy but you pretend no one can see you when you dance behind the bar, I’ve seen you — ”

“I do _not_ dance,” Doyoung blusters, and Jungwoo sits up, giggling.

“Yes, you do! I’ve seen you do it when you’re bored, you kind of wiggle like this…”

He tries to launch into a demonstration, but Doyoung is faster, grabbing his wrists before he can start. “Stop it,” he laughs.

Jungwoo just leans his head on Doyoung’s shoulder again, not caring that they’re still in a fairly awkward position and that they’ve stopped being quiet a long time ago. As much as Doyoung wants to stay in this moment, there’s still the night ahead and people to face, and more questions that will pop up.

“Did we go in the wrong order?” Doyoung wonders aloud. “From kissing to you blowing me, and now you’re telling me what you find so cute about me…”

“Know what it is about you, hyung?” Jungwoo says suddenly. He sits up once more, smile replaced with a pout. “You think too much.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m just wondering what we are now.”

“Well, I know I want to be your boyfriend.” Jungwoo cocks his head to the side. “Is that what you want too?”

“I…” Doyoung starts, then stops. If any of this is going to work, he needs to stop overthinking shit so much. “Yeah.”

“Okay, so we’re boyfriends now. There, not that difficult.”

He looks so pleased with himself that Doyoung has to chuckle. “I guess it is.”

They have to get up from the floor soon after, because Doyoung is genuinely concerned about the state of Jungwoo’s knees and they’re both slowly being covered in dust. Jungwoo’s hair is a complete mess that Doyoung tries in vain to fix, except Jungwoo keeps trying to kiss him every time he’s putting a strand back in place. Once they both look presentable enough, Jungwoo opens the door, expecting Doyoung to follow him, but he shakes his head.

“I’ll wait a few minutes before I come up. Don’t want the others getting suspicious.”

“Oh, right.” Jungwoo glances towards the steps. “I guess we can’t just waltz up there and start kissing each other.”

“Not yet, at least,” Doyoung cuts in. At the moment, he doesn’t want to think of the stress of telling everyone else or letting them find out. “We don’t need a mass freakout on our hands just before opening.”

“True.” Jungwoo moves to fix Doyoung’s shirt collar. “But come and find me after we close, okay? I’m gonna miss kissing you, I think.”

Doyoung takes a minute to revel in his luck. “Yeah, I will too. I’ll try not to stare so much, though.”

“No, I like it, remember?” He pecks Doyoung’s lips once and giggles. “I’ll see you up there.”

The door shuts behind him and Doyoung isn’t thinking anymore. For the first time in a long time, he’s just _feeling_. He’s awake on the shore again, but this time he’s looking out at where the water meets the sky, and the air is easier to breathe.

He lets a few more minutes pass before he opens the door again and follows Jungwoo upstairs, into a world where, finally, he exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like my dowoo chapters are always not as good as the other ones……. in a happy coincidence, around the time that i started writing this chapter jungwoo’s dicon video came out so it was definitely a source of inspiration. that lip bite, oof!! actually, all of their individual videos are such good fuel for this fic (chalking it up to the enormous himbo energy) 
> 
> also, happy happy late birthday to mark lee!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was tough to write as well, i scrapped the entire thing about twice over before i was somewhat satisfied (i'm not totally happy with it, but when am i really lol). major apologies to anyone who’s commented about how johnten is killing them in this fic, cause this chapter is uh.. nothing but angst

There had been a time, back when Ten was still at that dance academy in Bangkok, when finely-pressed suits and champagne bottles were the farthest thing from his mind. He had been practicing a routine for months on end. It was almost perfect, except for a single move in the middle that wasn’t quite right. A mediocre dancer would have shrugged it off, accepted it as good enough, and moved on. Not Ten. He spent hours upon hours trying to correct it, to make it as much a part of his body as the rest of the dance was. It seemed that, no matter what he did, how quickly or slowly he took it, it was never right — and he went home most nights aching and bruised, but no closer to what he wanted. It haunted him for weeks, a single crack in a pane of stained glass that he couldn’t overlook. 

“You’ve always been so stubborn,” his mother had soothed him one evening as he cried tears of frustration, telling her he wanted to scrap the routine entirely, “but you have to learn to accept weakness, my dear. There’s no shame in that.”

Ten doesn’t feel weak. He feels _wounded_. 

He had accepted long ago that Johnny was a weakness for him, his thumb always seemingly over his pulse and ready to press down on it, but that morning had broken something in Ten he doesn’t know how to fix. He’s never felt so angry, so heartbroken, so _empty_ all at the same time. Days had passed since, and Ten made a concerted effort to wash everything in his apartment and shove whatever Johnny left behind under the bed or in the closet until he was too exhausted to cry. He tried to keep the throwing things around to a minimum — some mornings his tears gave way to a blistering fit of rage — but he can’t so much as look at eggs without wanting to vomit. In the precious few minutes after he wakes up, he sometimes turns over in his bed and expects to see Johnny there, hair tousled and dead to the world, and when reality sets in, all he wants to do is go back to sleep. He tries not to miss it, the way Johnny’s face lights up when he laughs, his tiny lisp that Ten never, ever wanted to go away, or how he would gladly stand one (or two, or three) steps down from Ten on the stairs so they could kiss without having to strain. It was a mistake, he thinks, to let Johnny into his bed in the first place, to expose his wounds to him, to let him fill them. It was shameful to think he had ever been in control. 

At the club, he pretends as well as he does any other day. Now, though, he’s pretending to the others, to Jungwoo when he asks how he should style his hair today, to Doyoung when he throws some verbal barb at him, to Taeil when he cocks his head and asks if he’s feeling all right. It’s all the same, except Johnny never checks up on him before opening or touches his shoulder or his back when he passes by. Ten doesn’t even look at him, dismisses him as a tiny blur on the edge of his vision, because if that’s what Johnny thought of him all this time, why should he feel any different? Their not-relationship was a poorly-kept secret from the beginning — new hires learned just as quickly not to flirt with Johnny as they did to properly signal for a glass or ashtray — but if anyone notices the tension, they’re choosing not to bring it up out of respect for their privacy or straight-up fear.

Ten is getting ready for the night when Taeyong chooses to slip into the dressing room. 

“Okay, something’s wrong,” he says, pulling up Yuta’s usual chair and sitting next to Ten, looking at him insistently in the mirror. “Tell me.”

“Just because you own this club doesn’t mean you have to be the mom friend.” 

Taeyong ignores him. “Is it about you and Johnny? You two seem… cold nowadays.” 

“No, it’s nothing.” 

He knows better than to try and lie to Taeyong, but he’s also painfully aware of how desperate he is to keep pretending. Taeyong seems to know this too, and he lets out a heavy sigh. “That ‘I’m fine’ thing doesn’t work on me. You know that.” 

Ten stabs a sensitive part of his cartilage with an earring and flinches, letting it drop onto the dresser. Giving up, he exhales deeply, finally making eye contact with Taeyong.

“I’m just… not ready to talk about it yet. I’m sorry.” 

A mix of relief and frustration crosses Taeyong’s face, but he gets up and returns the chair. “Well, when you are, you know where to find me.” He lays his hand on Ten's shoulder and Ten pats it as a feeble gesture of gratitude. “Seriously, don’t bottle it up.” 

“I won’t,” he says.

The lighter remains heavy in his breast pocket. 

* * *

Taeyong, unlike the others, is harder to trick. He’s always been, despite outward appearances. Ten had been his first hire before Neo City even opened; when it was no more than an idea. Taeyong had come to him when they were both still at Club Coex, at a tiny, crowded bar they killed time at before and after shifts.

“I’m thinking of leaving,” he said, after they both had enough beer inside of them to make Taeyong run his mouth. 

“Are you serious?” Ten’s Korean wasn’t the greatest then. He had to be careful around patrons at the club who already looked at him differently for being a foreigner, and had been scolded a few times for using the wrong word or enthusiastically agreeing with something horrible out of politeness, but Taeyong never seemed to mind. 

“Uh-huh. It’s just not worth it.” Taeyong pushed his glass around in lazy circles. “I don’t want to break down like Hansol did — you remember Hansol, right?”

Ten winced. He had been there the night of Hansol’s freakout too, at the next table, trying not to step on the glass. Ever the professional, he continued drinking and talking with his patron, but he couldn’t shake the impact of Hansol’s quiet despair, or the faraway look on Taeyong’s face when he returned to the dressing room later. “Of course. But… what are you going to do after?”

“That’s the thing.” A little smile crossed his face. “I’m going to open my own club.” 

“No fucking way.” 

At that time, almost no one left Club Coex unless they burned out or got fired. It was the biggest club in all of Gangnam, featuring both hosts and hostesses and the most expensive, top-shelf alcohol anyone could buy. The competition for patrons and commissions was fierce among employees, and the owner, Soo-man, was notorious for his ruthless management and shady, under-the-table dealings. It was when he was giving verbal dressing-downs to the others that Ten was, for a moment, grateful that he couldn’t understand half of it. He and Taeyong were among the highest-paid and most popular hosts there. The idea that Taeyong would leave and become a direct competitor with the club was unheard of. Ten stared at him wide-eyed.

“I have something in mind already.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Ten to decipher. The words “neo” and “city” were scrawled across the top in English and Hangul, with crude drawings mapping out a rough floorplan for the club. Ten had to tilt the paper a bit to read Taeyong’s handwriting, which talked about alcohol, security, and all-male clientele. “It sounds crazy, but I want you to come work with me.” 

“Wait, seriously?” 

Things hadn’t exactly been ideal for Ten after he left Bangkok. He told his mother that he received an offer to travel with a dance troupe in the northeast, and feigned a smile when she hugged him, joyful that her son’s dream paid off. None of it was true, of course. She didn’t even know that Ten had left the academy, tired of feeling like he wasn’t going anywhere and tired of the injuries that never seemed to heal. He found himself wandering from country to country, scraping by on speaking English and the money he had saved and whatever his mother had lovingly, foolishly, given to him. It wasn’t until he came to Seoul that a tall, striking man who he later came to know as Yunho approached him on the street and asked him if he wanted to work at a club. The fact that he knew almost no Korean didn’t seem to faze Soo-man. The minute he told them he knew English and Thai and could dance, he was hired, and within months his popularity as a host exploded. The money he sent back with every paycheck was more than enough to pay his mother and sister’s bills, yet too little to compensate for the guilt that ate away at him. What would she think, knowing that Ten lied to her and spent his days drinking with rich men for pay? 

“It’s a risk, I know,” Taeyong said. “It might not even happen.” 

He looked away then, suddenly quiet. Ten clinked the ice around in his glass for a second, then spoke.

“You know I’d follow you anywhere. Count me in.” 

* * *

Ten comes back to himself in the middle of bowing to a patron, and realizes that it’s his last one of the night and the doors are closing. When did he even stop paying attention? He must have gone through the motions of smiling, talking, dancing, and no one noticed or cared that he wasn’t even fully present. On better nights, he’s playing a role, putting on a show as if he’s onstage again and trying to tell a story through his movements. It’s a mask, it always has been, but he’s consumed by it now. Maybe he’s trying to let it swallow him up so he can turn numb to himself and to this strange sadness. Maybe he’d rather just not feel anything. 

He’s on his way out of the back door into the alleyway behind the club when Johnny catches his arm. Ten hadn’t even noticed he was behind him. His heart stops for a brief moment, and he forces his words out before he can start panicking.

“Let go of me,” he says quietly, still not looking at his face.

“No. We need to talk.”

Johnny’s voice sounds like the one he uses when he’s giving a warning to a drunk or handsy patron. Before, it had been something of a turn-on for Ten, but now he just feels sick.

“There's nothing to talk about. Let go of me.” 

“You've been avoiding me since that day, and I know you're angry at me about something, but you refusing to talk doesn't solve shit.”

Ten manages to wrest his arm free — Johnny’s aware of his own strength, and he’s clearly holding back — and keeps walking. It had started to rain during the evening and Ten was just hoping to make it to the train without completely ruining his suit. 

Johnny follows him, not caring that they’re now both getting wet. “So you’re just going to—”

“What's wrong with me?” he cuts him off, turning around. “I’m serious, John. Tell me what's wrong with me.”

His words seem to unsettle Johnny, whose expression turns from angry to uncomfortable. “Why are you asking me this? Nothing's wrong with you.”

Ten crosses his arms over his chest. “So why won't you date me?”

“What?”

“Am I not good enough for you? Would you be ashamed of calling me your boyfriend or something?”

“Of course you're— anyone would be lucky to date you.”

“But not you, right?”

This isn’t how Ten expected the conversation to go. This isn’t what he wanted at all, but the sight of Johnny standing there in the rain, confused and hurt, had finally broken him, and he doesn’t know if he can control what’s coming out of his mouth. 

“I-I don’t get it.”

“What don’t you understand?” Ten doesn’t know when he started shouting. He doesn’t even bother to shake the rain out of his eyes, because he’s tired. He’s tired of having to explain himself and tired of pretending that this isn’t eating at him from the inside. 

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at!” Johnny shouts back in turn. 

“I’m fucking pissed off that you decided to date some other guy when we’ve been sleeping together for— for this goddamn long! Okay?” 

The mask, the whole song and dance they had been doing with each other since the beginning, shatters at that very second. Ten casts his eyes onto the ground, watching water get into his shoes. A minute passes in near-silence. 

“That’s what this is?” he asks, and Ten can barely hear him over the sound of the rain in the gutter. “You’ve had feelings for me all this time?” 

“I can’t believe I had to spell it out for you, but yeah.” Ten keeps his arms folded, though he’s hugging himself more than anything. “I’ve liked you for too long, congratulations.” 

Johnny presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, exhaling hard. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You’ve never felt anything for me?” It’s a challenge, maybe even a petty one, but the part of Ten wants to know the answer, though either yes or no could be lies at this point. Either answer wouldn’t even make a difference. 

When Johnny doesn’t say anything, Ten digs around in his pocket with shaky hands, pulling out the lighter. The golden surface looks dull in the low light. “Did you really expect me to believe that someone just _left_ this at the club for you to find? You went out and got it for me, didn’t you?”

“Fine.” Johnny’s hands drop and he shoves them into his pockets again, looking away. “I did.” 

“Why would you do that?”

“Because— God, you make this so fucking hard. I do— I did have some feelings for you. Happy?”

Ten laughs joylessly, a hollow, pathetic sound. “And you never told me.” 

“If it were that easy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation!” 

“But you just toyed with me like that and then went off to date someone else without even trying to tell me how you felt?” 

“I didn’t want to mess up what we had. I don’t know.” 

“So you don’t feel anything anymore?”

Johnny sighs. “Ten, it— it’s too much to explain.” 

“I don’t need you to explain. Say it,” he snaps, though his voice is thick with tears that aren’t falling yet. “Say you still feel something for me.” 

He hates Johnny, he thinks. He hates his laugh, his lisp, the way he takes up too much room in Ten’s bed. He wants him so badly it aches, flares up old injuries and long-forgotten feelings. He would gladly never sleep with Johnny again for the rest of his life if it meant he could be with him, in the purest sense of the word, for all that time. He wouldn’t stand in the rain for anyone else, waiting for an answer that he doesn’t even want to hear. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch his skin, see his wounds raw and empty, listen to his stories of home and regrets and days lost to the sun and the creaky floorboards of an old practice room, kiss him until he can’t breathe around the flowers that blossom in his lungs. 

He loves him.

“I—”

Johnny closes his mouth, shakes his head, and Ten can’t bear to look anymore. 

“I thought so.”

He tosses the lighter at Johnny’s feet, turns, and walks away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (gets pulled offstage by a vaudeville cane)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! sorry for the delay on this one, i was on vacation for a few days so i hope this chapter is worth the wait! thank you all for 100+ kudos and 1000+ hits as well, i really do appreciate every single one of you ❤️

As expected, the days leading up to Donghyuck’s not-date with Mark are long and plodding. It’s all Donghyuck can think about: the sweetest of soju doesn’t taste as good when he pours it for someone besides Mark, and patron after patron calling him beautiful or gorgeous doesn’t compare to how Mark sounds when he calls him cute. He even misses Mark’s goofy laugh that Donghyuck thinks is somehow the worst and best he’s ever heard. It’s bordering on — or is — a crush at this point, and Donghyuck knows he’s in too deep to dismiss it. Hosts and hostesses fall for their patrons all the time; Yuta, on busier nights when he’s had a little too much to drink, talks everyone’s ears off in the dressing room about a certain Dong Sicheng and how he wants him so badly, how he’s perfect, and Donghyuck nods in sympathy but keeps silent. He doesn’t need to be told that he needs to detach himself from his work, that it’s bad news to fall for someone who’s paying for him to ply them with attention. Really, he doesn’t want to be told that he can’t, shouldn’t be falling for Mark, because he likes it. Donghyuck has always felt his emotions a little too strongly, but he’s never been one to deny them. 

Saturday comes and, like he predicted, he only gets around six hours of sleep. Not wanting to psych himself out, he keeps from texting Mark or even checking his phone for a bit. It’s not often that he takes a day off — Taeyong, always cognizant of burnout, is generous with vacation time and is almost nagging when he reminds the staff that they shouldn’t be afraid to use it — so he spends more time than usual on breakfast, scrolling thoughtlessly through his phone as he has his coffee. Mark had asked to meet him around noon at a park near his apartment in Nonhyeon, then apologized for his poor planning skills. Donghyuck had assured him it was fine, and purposely didn't tell Mark that he would meet him in a fucking landfill if he asked. The small, small part of him that isn't a total idiot wonders if he's expecting too much, that maybe his elaborate dreams of a perfect not-date are setting him up for disappointment, though it's quickly shouted down by the rest of him that _is_ an idiot and fantasized more than once about what it would be like to kiss Mark, and Donghyuck has to shove the thought out of his head so he doesn’t melt.

He forces himself to not get ready until an hour and a half before noon, though he had given into his urge the previous night and already picked his outfit. It's a relief, at least, to not be wearing a suit for once. His makeup is trickier. At the club, he’s mostly glittery and golden to complement his skin — Ten likes bold colors and emphasizing his eyes, while Jungwoo just highlights the shit out of his cheekbones and somehow makes it work — but it’s to compete with the heavy floor lights. In broad daylight, he’d rather not look like a clown. While he's more confident in his bare face than most, he's still trying to make a certain impression. A light layer of foundation and a bit of eyeliner is all he lets himself do, and after checking his phone probably more times than necessary, he leaves for the train. It’s a short, quiet ride, and he sends a quick text to Mark to let him know he’s on his way. Mark responds with a thumbs-up emoji and tells him he’ll be waiting outside, and Donghyuck lets the familiar fluttering settle into his stomach. 

The train pulls into the station and Donghyuck has to remind himself not to look too eager, though that’s quickly forgotten when he notices Mark sitting in front of the gates. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and round, frameless glasses that make him look like a college student, rather than a fairly well-off patron of a host club. Donghyuck tries not to think about how he looks so much like a — _boyfriend_. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi. I didn’t know you wore glasses, hyung. Or are those just a fashion statement?”

Mark pushes them up, surprised. “I actually need them. I can’t believe you just insinuated that I’m a hipster, though.” 

“No, it’s not that!" Donghyuck laughs. “You’re handsome and I’m glad you can see.” 

Normally, Donghyuck would expect a blush to color Mark’s cheeks at the compliment, but he takes it in stride. “I guess that’s what matters. Let’s go?” 

The park is quiet for a Saturday afternoon; it had rained hard the night before, leaving puddles on the ground but a pleasant scent in the air, the sky overcast. Donghyuck doesn’t remember the last time he really went outside, and wonders if Mark is the same way, working until late and falling asleep with the sunrise. 

They’re walking aimlessly down some wooded path when Mark turns to look at him.

“I’m not used to seeing you in casual clothes,” he says.

“I could say the same to you. It’s kind of weird.”

“On me? I know. But you look really nice.” 

They’ve started again, their game of ping-ponging compliments and flirty remarks, but Donghyuck doesn’t feel like much of a winner. If Mark is the prize, he wants him already. They don’t feel like a patron and host here, and Donghyuck wants so badly to see where it will go, how far they can take it. He’s never been afraid of getting into trouble, almost recklessly so, and Mark would be worth it and more. He sticks closer to his side. 

“So you just wanted to take a walk?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I was hoping we would both get some sun for once, like you said, but—” Mark glances up at the sky and Donghyuck takes a moment to appreciate how his glasses perch on the bridge of his nose, “today is not that day, I guess.” 

“It’s not that bad,” Donghyuck says airily, reaching out to touch a particularly large leaf on a tree. Rainwater clings to his fingers and he shakes it off idly. “It’s good to go out and see, like… actual plants. Sometimes I forget this city isn’t just some big metal tube.” 

Mark makes a weird noise and Donghyuck, looking out of the corner of his eye, realizes Mark aborted his chuckle so it wouldn’t seem like he was laughing at him. “No, I get what you mean. I haven’t walked on actual dirt since I lived in Canada.” 

They come to a large pond in the middle of a clearing, with only some stepping stones and a few clusters of leaves marking its surface, which is otherwise murky and impossible to see through. Donghyuck is about to cross when Mark stops to peer at a sign.

“‘Please do not feed the fish,’” he reads. “Are there fish living here?” 

“Um, probably?” 

“Hold on.” He walks to the edge of the pond and crouches there, Donghyuck following him curiously.

“What are you doing?” 

Mark rolls up his sleeve and pokes the surface of the water with his index finger. 

“Where are the—” A brightly colored koi fish suddenly emerges, mouth open, seeming to think Mark’s finger is food, and he jumps up like he’s just been shocked. “Holy shit!” 

He backs up directly into Donghyuck, who has to grab him by the upper arms to keep him from falling over, and they watch as several more fish surface, interested in the commotion.

“Hyung!” Donghyuck says in exasperation, “it was just a _fish_!” 

“It scared me!” Mark shrieks, watching as they re-submerge. 

A gaggle of older ladies pass by, giving them an odd look, and they bow awkwardly before returning to their conversation in harsh whispers. 

“Well, what did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought they would be _small_ fish!” 

“You are so…” Donghyuck shakes his head. “So cute, hyung.” 

“Shut up.” 

It strikes Donghyuck then how _normal_ they must look, just two college-aged kids arguing with each other on a not-date. He realizes he’s been holding onto Mark’s arms — which feel more toned that he had thought — for a little longer than necessary, and reluctantly lets go of them. When Mark turns back around, he’s a little pink, though Donghyuck isn’t sure if it’s from their sudden contact or the strange… run-in with the fish. They move to cross the pond on the group of stepping stones, and Donghyuck hesitates.

“What’s up? Should I carry you across?” Mark asks, and Donghyuck’s knees nearly give way. “I’m kidding. Come on.” 

Hopping across deftly, he holds his hand out to Donghyuck, and, _fuck_ , Donghyuck thought he was better equipped for this. He takes a breath before slipping his hand into Mark’s and following, being careful not to slip, and Mark’s fingers entwine with his as if they’ve done it countless times before. It’s a simple gesture, likely born of politeness and not of any desire to touch him, but Mark doesn’t let go of his hand as he jumps onto the other side of the pond. He doesn’t let go as they find their way back onto the path, winding around trees and up countless wooden stairs, and Donghyuck doesn’t remember the last time he held anyone’s hand like this. There might have been a boy some time ago, but all Donghyuck can see is Mark, his cheeks still flushed but his his hand firm yet gentle. 

The game is getting to be too much, because Donghyuck can’t keep his mouth from running. “Was that just an excuse to hold my hand?”

Mark scratches the back of his head. “Hey, I never said I was good at flirting.” 

“You aren’t,” Donghyuck says, but his fingers stay linked with Mark’s. They’ve stopped in front of a children’s playground dotted with flowers, and he tugs at Mark they can sit down on a bench. Momentarily, he worries that Mark will let go of his hand, but the thought never seems to cross Mark’s mind, who holds his hand tighter. He thinks of what Mark had told him, how he wasn’t used to being with other men yet, and wonders if Mark is nervous about that too. The thought that he might be Mark’s first — well, everything — with a guy excites and scares Donghyuck a little. 

There’s a patch of black-eyed susans growing out of the dirt next to them, and it reminds Donghyuck of something long-forgotten. 

“People used to call me ‘sunflower’ when I was growing up,” he finds himself saying as he runs his fingers along the petals. 

“Really?”

“Mmm. Though I found out later that sunflowers are actually considered invasive, so they could have been saying I was annoying.” 

“Sunflower,” Mark hums, voice thoughtful, and when Donghyuck turns to look at him, he’s sitting a little closer. “You’re bright, that’s why. At least I think you are.” 

He cups Donghyuck’s cheek with his free hand, thumb pressing into the soft skin there, and Donghyuck doesn’t dare to breathe as Mark continues.

“There’s something between us I can’t stop thinking about, and…” He swallows, looking down at the ground. “Sorry. I’m not good at timing either.”

“It’s okay,” Donghyuck says, then mentally smacks himself. It’s more than okay. “I mean, yeah. I think you know how I feel about you.” 

Mark’s tongue peeks out from between his lips, wetting them, and for once, Donghyuck lets himself stare. “Can I kiss you?” 

Donghyuck nods, his face red because _of course_ Mark is the type to ask, and Mark closes the gap between them without hesitation. The hand on Donghyuck’s face moves under his chin, tilting it up, and Donghyuck manages to suppress a squeak. He had always imagined kissing Mark at the club, in some dark corner where they know they might get caught, hands roaming blindly and their tongues down each other’s throats. This is nothing like that; there’s no desperation or hunger, just Mark’s impossibly gentle touch and the ground cool and soft beneath their feet. 

The sound of people coming down the path makes Mark pull away, his glasses slightly askew and a shy smile playing across his lips. A giggle bubbles up from Donghyuck’s chest and he puts his hands over his now-red face, muffling it. 

“Should we go?” he whispers, and Mark nods once before getting up, taking him by the hand again, and practically running out of there. Donghyuck can’t stop laughing to himself because it all feels so _unreal_ , the way Mark is pulling him along like they’re in some movie, and over the sounds of the river and their footsteps, he thinks he hears Mark laughing too. 

The two of them make it back to the entrance of the park, which is a little more crowded than before, and Donghyuck has to resist the urge to kiss him again. “Are you taking me somewhere?” 

“Back to mine,” Mark says, breathing hard, then stammers. “I mean, if that’s okay?” 

The implications aren’t lost on Donghyuck, but he at least manages not to scream. “Yeah, it is.” 

It’s only a few minutes’ walk to Mark’s apartment, but Donghyuck feels like he’s about to burst out of his skin. The fluttering in his stomach has been replaced by an ache he’s never felt before. They’ve stopped holding hands — they’re in public, after all, and Donghyuck had tried not to pout too much when Mark finally let go — but he lets himself lean a bit into Mark’s shoulder when they’re stopped at a crosswalk, and Mark’s fingers encircle his wrist for a second in answer. He tries not to gawk when Mark leads them to a clearly affluent building; evidently, Mark’s offhand comments about making more money at work than he knew what to do with weren’t in jest. 

“I didn’t have time to clean this morning, so sorry if it’s kind of a mess,” Mark says as he unlocks his door, pushing it open to reveal the neatest apartment Donghyuck has ever seen. It’s also nicer than any apartment belonging to a 21-year old that he knows, with more space and natural light than Donghyuck could dream of. There’s a guitar and scattered pieces of paper on the living room table that Donghyuck assumes is the “mess.” He gives him a side glance as he takes off his shoes. 

“You call this messy?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“I hope you never come to my apartment, ever,” Donghyuck grumbles, though it’s mostly to mask his nervous excitement. “So are you going to kiss me again or what?”

Mark shakes his head. “You’re too much,” he says, and pulls Donghyuck onto the couch beside him. 

Their lips find each other again, and this time it’s different: less controlled, more intense, and Donghyuck wants to live in every second of it. In one swift motion, he straddles Mark’s lap, never breaking the kiss, and gets his arms around his neck. Mark shifts around in surprise, but his hands follow naturally, settling onto Donghyuck’s waist and squeezing. He seems to know what Donghyuck wants instinctively, pressing his tongue into his mouth when Donghyuck parts his lips, and Donghyuck doesn’t know how it had taken them this long to get here. It feels like he’s been waiting years for this, and now that he has it, he wants it all at once, to take and be taken, everything else be damned. 

“Am I really too much?” he asks once they’ve stopped to breathe. 

“Of course you are.” Mark fixes his glasses, which are actually fogging up a little bit. “You’re too much of a tease, for one.” 

“ _I’m_ the tease?” he mock gasps. 

“I’m not the one who got up and did that… dance,” Mark says indignantly. “You don’t even know what you do to me.” 

“I’d like to hear it.” 

“You drive me _crazy_. I couldn’t stop thinking about you even after that first night. You’re just… I don’t know. You’re too fucking beautiful.” 

“And so are you,” Donghyuck murmurs, though he’s afraid Mark might be able to hear his heartbeat by this point. “Do you know how hard it was to pretend I cared about other patrons after you came in?”

Mark squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t remind me of them.” 

“Why not?” 

“Sometimes I get jealous. Even though you’re not even, like… mine to begin with.” 

His voice stumbles over the “mine,” like he’s afraid to say it, and Donghyuck has to pause for a moment and choose his words carefully.

“I could be yours.” 

Mark’s face is unreadable. His hands pull Donghyuck back in for another kiss, rougher than the last. For all his fantasies about this moment, Donghyuck had never bothered to think about what would happen after, once the dust had settled and he had to deal with the fact that Mark was still a regular that he had very real feelings for. He hadn’t considered whether or not Mark saw him as more than a pretty face, some one night stand — or, he was too afraid to think of that possibility. 

“Is that what you want?” Mark murmurs against his lips.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he knows there’s no going back after this. 

Mark stands up abruptly, taking his glasses off and tossing them onto the coffee table, and Donghyuck has the good sense to wrap his arms around his waist before he ungracefully crashes to the floor. He can’t see where Mark is carrying him, and Mark’s lips moving to his neck are enough to make him not care, but eventually they’re in his infuriatingly clean bedroom. 

“Can you see me without your glasses?” he asks as Mark lays him down, arms at either side of his head. “You’ll be missing out on a good view if you can’t.” 

“I’d keep them on if I couldn’t.” 

“Oh, I want to see that,” he teases, and Mark just rolls his eyes before going back to kissing and gently scraping his teeth on his neck. He’s decent enough to not leave hickeys, because the last thing Donghyuck needs is for people to ask questions, and Donghyuck’s hands find the hem of his sweatshirt, tugging at it and urging him to take it off already. Mark obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside, then moves to do the same to Donghyuck. He whines as Mark’s thigh brushes against his clothed cock when he sits up to discard his shirt; he’s already so turned on he would rut against Mark until he came if he could. 

“Well, someone’s impatient,” Mark observes, and Donghyuck squirms indignantly. 

“I’d just appreciate it if you’d fuck me already, that’s all.” 

It’s not that he doesn’t want Mark to tease him, to touch every part of him until he’s begging for it, but he wants to be taken even more. Mark cocks an eyebrow, but starts to make work of both of their jeans without further questioning. Donghyuck isn’t sure if he’s been _this_ assertive all along, but he loves it. He tilts his hips up as Mark tugs off his underwear as well, leaving them both naked and aching as Mark kisses him one more time before going to root around in his bedside drawer. 

“Um, Mark?” he says as he turns himself onto all fours. 

Mark stops in the middle of uncapping the lube. “Yeah?”

“I really like getting spanked,” he says, then dissolves into a fit of giggles, putting his face into the bed. 

“Oh,” is Mark’s response. “Should I spank you?” 

“No, that was just your daily fun fact about Donghyuck. Yes, you should spank me.” 

Mark is silent for a minute and Donghyuck bites his lip, praying that he hadn’t just freaked him out.

“Who am I, letting you talk to me informally like that? I should have spanked you earlier for not calling me hyung like you’re supposed to.” 

“Oh my God,” Donghyuck whines, “yes, please.” 

The first slap hits his cheek, a quick swat, and it’s enough to make him whine again. 

“You have such a cute ass,” comes Mark’s voice from behind him, and Donghyuck is about to complain when another smack, harder this time, hits his other cheek. “No wonder you like this.”

“I do, _hyung_ ,” he manages to squeak out as Mark spanks him for the third, fourth, fifth time.

“So bratty,” Mark murmurs, and the next slap lands where Donghyuck’s ass meets his thigh, forcing him to stuff his face back into the sheets so he doesn’t scream. “You’re lucky my neighbors are at work right now, otherwise they’d be hearing you shriek.” 

Donghyuck loses count after that, distracted by the stinging and how painfully hard he is, until Mark’s hand slides up his back and makes him arch. “Was that enough for you?” 

“Yes, my—” he starts, and is silenced quickly when he feels Mark’s tongue against his hole. “Oh, fuck!” 

Mark just hums in response, seeming to be having the time of his damn life torturing Donghyuck like this, and Donghyuck might very well explode at this point. Mark’s hands grip his thighs, pulling him more onto his face. His tongue is surprisingly deft, and Donghyuck regains some control of himself to grind on him a little bit, though he earns another spank for his trouble. He whines again, head dipping down, and Mark comes back up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’ve teased you enough, haven’t I?” he asks, picking the lube back up from where he left it on the bed.

Donghyuck rests his cheek on the pillow so he isn’t talking into the sheets anymore. “It’s like you’re trying to kill me.” 

The bottle clicks closed and Donghyuck feels a slick finger against his hole. He shifts his knees a little farther apart and sighs, willing himself to relax. It had been some time since he had been properly fucked, not counting the nights he tried with his own fingers, and, while Mark is hell-bent on taking him apart, he’s slow and forgiving in stretching him out. A second finger presses inside him before long, and Mark’s free hand caresses the inside of his thigh. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says softly, and Donghyuck can only manage to nod. Mark pulls his fingers out after a minute, and, after hastily slipping a condom on, replaces them with the tip of his cock. Donghyuck moans, hands scrambling for purchase in the mattress, and Mark’s quiet one in response is all Donghyuck has ever wanted to hear. He turns his head a little more to look at him, at how Mark’s face is flushed a beautiful shade of red. 

“You feel so good,” Mark grits out. “Shit.” 

He pushes in farther and Donghyuck whines in response. “Fuck me,” he pleads. 

Mark obliges, finally having given up on torturing Donghyuck, and starts to thrust into him, his grip almost painfully tight on Donghyuck’s hips. Donghyuck presses his forehead into the bed, a litany of curses and cries escaping his lips as he tries desperately not to touch his cock. Mark _is_ worth it, he thinks, worth hundreds of lectures from Taeyong, hell, even the loss of his job if it ever came to that, because he’s reckless and in deep with this boy, and he would cross a thousand more lines if each one led to this.

He hits a particularly sensitive spot inside him, making his vision nearly white out, and he squirms, trying to get him to stay there. “More,” he says shakily, “don’t stop, please.” 

Mark mumbles something in English that Donghyuck has no hope of understanding and pulls out, turning Donghyuck over and leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“I want to see you,” he says, and slips back in, leaving Donghyuck to wrap his legs around his waist and dig his fingernails into his back. The new angle makes it easier for Mark to fuck into him, hitting that one spot over and over, and Donghyuck knows they’re both close. He reaches in between them for his cock, but Mark is one step ahead, taking it in hand and stroking him. Donghyuck keens, back arching, and Mark just looks down at him. 

“Please,” he pants, not caring that he’s never been the type to beg, not so easily subjugated, “please, Mark, I need to, I—”

A well-timed twist of Mark’s hand and he’s coming, his moan turning into an embarrassing whine as Mark keeps fucking him through his orgasm. Mark himself isn’t far behind, burying his face in Donghyuck’s neck as he groans something else in English. They stay there for a minute, their skin sticking together, until Mark shifts over to the other side of the bed and lays there on his stomach. Donghyuck turns to look at him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his back as he tries to get feeling back into his legs. After a minute, he rolls over and pokes Mark’s side. 

“I hope you’re not sleeping, ‘cause I reaaaaally need you to fuck me again.” 

“Okay.” Mark grunts, his voice muffled by the pillows. “Okay, hold on.” 

“Can you put your glasses on for real, though?” 

“Oh my God, Donghyuck.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT i haven't updated in a week!! i'm super sorry, i've been so busy with Life Stuff and i got stuck so many times trying to write this chapter TT!!! i'm sorry it's not very long either.... ahh there's so much to apologize for and i feel so bad. thank you guys for still sticking around!

Being Jungwoo’s boyfriend, as Doyoung comes to learn, is harder than he anticipated. 

It’s hard, for one, to keep himself from vaulting over the bar and kissing Jungwoo at inopportune times. Jungwoo is nothing but endlessly affectionate with him in their private and not-so-private moments — they had agreed to keep their newfound relationship a secret to the rest of the club for the time being — and Doyoung never thought he could miss touching someone else’s skin so much, even for a second. Work is little more than an obstacle, just trying not to stare at Jungwoo as he waits for the doors to finally close. The liquor storage has become their little hideaway, though Doyoung doesn’t know how much longer they can come up with excuses for Jungwoo to go in there. Stolen kisses and even desperate rutting against each other (because Jungwoo is apparently really, _really_ eager for it all the time) aren’t always enough when they’re shoved into the cramped space together, and Doyoung prefers when they leave together, sitting in some late-night bar until three or four in the morning, just talking about whatever they feel like, Jungwoo’s fingers laced with his under the table. 

It’s also hard to remember that Jungwoo is just doing his job. If Doyoung thought he was jealous before, it’s nothing compared to actually _dating_ Jungwoo and having to stand across from him night after night, watching him heap attention on other men. Every time Jungwoo touches a patron, whether on the arm or cheek or knee, Doyoung can’t help the surge of envy spiking his heart. It’s ugly and unnecessary, yet ever-present for him to beat back. He should be nothing but happy that he and Jungwoo are together now, and for that he feels disgusted with himself. He doesn’t _own_ Jungwoo, no one does, and it’s a testament to Jungwoo’s skill as a host that he makes everyone around him fall for him this way. The best Doyoung can do is look away, pretend he can’t hear patrons telling Jungwoo things only _he_ should be saying, and grit his teeth. 

It does give him a certain satisfaction, though, knowing that when the doors close, Jungwoo only has eyes for him. He waits until everyone’s shuffled back into their office or dressing room before practically jumping on Doyoung, peppering his face with kisses.

“Doyoungie, I missed you,” he’ll say, even though they’ve been no more than a hundred feet away from each other the entire night, and Doyoung will kiss him back until Jungwoo’s giggling so loudly they have to stop. Still, no one’s caught on yet, save for Jaehyun suspiciously asking Doyoung why he’s so chipper all of a sudden. Sneaking around is a pain, sure, but Doyoung would rather that than have everyone know their business. He’s sure Jungwoo appreciates keeping _some_ part of his life to himself, anyway. 

The doors to the club finally close, and Jungwoo comes out of the dressing room in record time, face scrubbed clean. 

“Let’s go, quick,” he whines as soon as he reaches the bar. “I’m hungry.” 

“Yes, yes,” Doyoung hums, as if he hadn’t already started cleaning long before the last patron left. Jungwoo leans across the counter, propped on his elbows and pouting adorably, and Doyoung pokes his nose. “Don’t make that face.” 

They slip through the back door and Jungwoo takes his hand as soon as they’re outside, tugging him closer to plant a kiss on his cheek. He’s clingy of his own self-admission: the first morning they spent together at Doyoung’s apartment, Jungwoo had backhugged him the entire time he was trying to make breakfast, whining about wanting to stay in bed longer to cuddle. It’s not that Doyoung isn’t used to physical affection, but Jungwoo never seems to be satisfied unless he’s touching Doyoung in some capacity, whether it’s by laying on top of him or resting his head on his shoulder. 

“I wish I was a koala so I could just cling to your leg all day,” Jungwoo had said once when he was giggly and drunk, planted firmly in Doyoung’s lap after a few after-work drinks, and Doyoung doesn’t doubt that he was serious about it. He would let him, if that were even possible. Then again, he would let Jungwoo do nearly anything. 

Their favorite ramyun shop, blessedly open until four in the morning, is waiting for them, and they squeeze into a corner together. 

“Busy night again, huh?” Doyoung says once Jungwoo’s finally stopped eating long enough to breathe. 

He wipes his mouth and nods. “Well, it’s ‘cause Ten-hyung’s been out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a vacation day, actually.” 

Now that Doyoung thinks about it, he’s never seen Ten take a day off either. He’s chalked it up to him being a workaholic, not unlike the rest of them, but it happened in the middle of the week, leaving the rest of the hosts scrambling to pick up the slack. Jungwoo’s had to attend to a few of Ten’s regular patrons, working double time to ensure they’re at least content, and Doyoung keeps his ever-wary eyes on him.

“I guess that makes you the most popular one when he’s gone.” 

“Uh-uh. Jaehyunnie-hyung and Donghyuck are more popular than I am, I think.” 

Doyoung pokes at a stray piece of kimchi harder than he intended to. “You still see a lot of patrons, though. A lot.” 

He tries not to let the bitterness come through in his voice, but Jungwoo, always so perceptive, tilts his head at him. 

“You sound grumpy,” he says, putting down his chopsticks. 

Aware of himself, Doyoung tries to tease back. “Aren’t I always grumpy?” 

“Yes, handsome, but it’s more than usual today. Is something wrong?” 

Lying to Jungwoo is useless. As sweet and unassuming as he is, he isn’t dumb, and Doyoung knows this better than anyone.“It’s just hard to see you doing all… that sometimes,” he admits. “At the club, with your patrons. Even though it doesn’t mean anything.”

“You get jealous?”

“You know how I am. Or, you know, I keep thinking about what happened to you with that guy, and I just get nervous that it’ll happen again.”

All traces of mirth leave Jungwoo’s face, and he draws his mouth into a tight line. Doyoung’s tendency towards jealousy is well-known to both of them, often the subject of light-hearted jokes and teases, but Jungwoo seems to be picking his words carefully. 

“I’ve been doing this for a while. You know that, you’ve been there, and I know you get worried. But I can take care of myself.” 

His gaze pierces Doyoung and he looks away in shame. “I can’t help it sometimes,” he mumbles, trying to fight off that feeling of disgust he felt earlier. “I’m trying, I swear.” 

It’s pathetic of him to offer _trying_ as a platitude, a salve for a burn that’s more than skin-deep, but it’s all he can do, and Jungwoo’s eyes soften. He reaches across the table and puts his hand over Doyoung’s, his usual smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“It’s okay. I get jealous too.” 

“How?”

Jungwoo picks his chopsticks back up. “There are patrons who go just to look at you, haven’t you noticed?” 

“Uh…” Doyoung tries to think of who’s come up to the bar to talk to him over the past few days, but the only face he can remember is Jungwoo’s. Rightfully so. “No?”

“I had one the other day who said it was a shame you weren’t a host! I was going to tell you, but I was so mad.” He shakes his head and puffs out his cheeks. “I was so mad.” 

The relief settles into Doyoung’s chest as he laughs incredulously. “Why would they say that to you? I’m not much to look at and you’re… no one should get tired of looking at you.” 

“Hey, you’re handsome too! I keep telling you, purple hair would look so nice.”

“Not as handsome as you are,” he insists, then looks down, still laughing. “Never mind, I won’t argue. I know I’m right, anyway.” 

Giggling, Jungwoo squeezes his hand one more time before reaching up to poke at Doyoung’s face. 

“It’s just a job, okay? I like you best.” 

He’s smiling again, but there’s something faraway about his eyes, something Doyoung hasn’t seen before. He wants to ask, to tell Jungwoo he doesn’t need to mask himself when that’s what he does for a living, but something tells him he’s not going to get far. 

“I like you best too,” Doyoung says, and tries to forget that look.

* * *

The loud buzz startles Ten awake. Groggily, he rolls off the couch where he had been sleeping in a puddle of his own drool and stumbles to the intercom. He doesn’t remember exactly when he had fallen asleep; it could have been this morning or an hour ago. Feeling around for the button, he rubs his eyes. 

“I don’t want to buy anything or talk about Jesus, thank you,” he mumbles. 

Taeyong’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Oh, so you’re alive. Mind opening the door?” 

The sound nearly makes Ten jump. “Aren’t you—” He glances at the time, a quarter to eleven at night. “Isn’t the club open right now? Why are you here?”

“I have vacation time too, you know. Taeil-hyung’s fine by himself. Could you let me in already?” 

Sighing, Ten pushes the other button on the panel and returns to his facedown position on the couch, not caring that the apartment’s become a mess after he ran out of energy to clean. Taeyong’s seen him in comparatively worse circumstances. He hears him come in through the front door a minute later — since when had it been unlocked?

“Wow,” he whistles, surveying the room. “Did I wake you up?”

“Yes, clearly.” 

Taeyong settles into the armchair next to the couch, though he has to move more than a few dirty mugs off it and find space for them on the already crowded coffee table. He cocks his head at Ten, who still has his face in a pillow, clad in no more than a shirt and boxers with his hair uncharacteristically tangled. “So you finally took time off.” 

“Yeah, well, I figured I should use it for once.”

“It’s kind of weird without you there. I have half a mind to take every Madonna song off the rotation until you come back, ‘cause it feels empty when you’re not out there dancing to them.” 

The corner of Ten’s mouth curves up in an attempt at a smile, but he isn’t in the mood to laugh. He hasn’t been in days, actually. Taeyong, picking up on this, frowns as he leans closer.

“I’m worried about you. You never do this.” 

“Do what?” Ten grunts. 

Taeyong runs his hands over his face and exhales. “You’ve been at the club for years and this is the first time you’ve taken more than a day off at a time, and here you are just asleep in your own debris. And I know it’s about Johnny, I heard you two screaming at each other. Didn’t understand a word of it, though.” 

Ten cringes at the name, legs twitching as if he’s about to curl up into the fetal position. He feels it, the ghost of the rain soaking him to the bone, the hoarseness in his throat, the way he cried the entire ride home as everyone else on the train politely gave him a wide berth, the skin under his eyes growing raw and painful. “Shit,” is all he can say.

“Yeah.”

“I guess you want me to tell you?” he sighs again, finally turning onto his back and throwing his arm over his eyes. He’s been trying for days to think of something, anything besides Johnny, but his brain has been playing that morning and their shouting match behind the club like a series of terrible home movies he’s being forced to watch. The idea of putting it all into words makes his stomach churn. 

“Not yet.” Taeyong gets back up. “Put on some pants.” 

Ten takes his arm away and squints at Taeyong. “Ugh, why?”

“We’re going to our regular spot.”

* * *

They hadn’t been to their regular spot in months, the same tiny bar they had haunted all through their time at Club Coex. The bartender nods at them both as they walk in, with Ten settling into their usual seats as Taeyong buys them drinks — something strong, at Ten’s request. Most of their friendship formed at this very table, from the first time Taeyong invited him along because they both needed stiff drinks, to when Taeyong shoved a scrap of paper at him and invited him to do something crazy. They weren't the owner of one of the top clubs or one of the best hosts in Gangnam here. Here, they were just Taeyong and Ten, both as young and unsure of themselves as everyone else in the room. If one of Ten’s patrons were to walk in right now, he isn’t sure they would even recognize him. 

Taeyong comes back with three bottles of soju and wordlessly pours Ten a shot. Muttering his thanks, Ten lifts his glass and swallows it before Taeyong even has the chance to pour his own. It goes down smoothly, leaves a comfortable warmth, but it’s not enough to get rid of the lump in his throat he didn’t even realized had formed. He gestures to the bottle again, and Taeyong pours another out for him that he takes just as quickly. Wiping his lips, he sets his glass down. Taeyong just looks at him expectantly, that ever-present paternal concern in his eyes. He’s seen it before, on Johnny’s face, and he tries to shake the image out of his memory. 

“It’s going to take a long time to explain, I think.” 

Taeyong folds his hands under his chin, an oddly cute gesture for such a serious conversation. “I’m listening.” 

“So you know about John and me. That’s… whatever.” He gestures vaguely as if it’ll help him make his point. “But, so, one morning he just up and told me he was going on a date with someone. I kind of just… freaked out and left, and when he finally caught me — when you heard us fighting — I told him how I really felt, and… yeah. That’s what happened.” 

It dawns on him how stupid he sounds. Had he even given Johnny a real chance to explain himself? Was he just being over-dramatic, expecting a relationship to develop without needing to talk about it? Years of touches, quick kisses and kisses that lasted longer than usual, whispered words, _emotions_ , all distilled into a handful of sentences, and Ten knows he can’t put any of that into words. He stares at the bottom of his glass, as if it’s going to bestow an answer upon him. 

“You told him how you felt,” Taeyong echoes. By the look on his face, he’s confused, and Ten can’t blame him. 

“Yeah, it just kind of spilled out ‘cause he didn’t understand why I was upset with him. He just… didn’t really say anything, so I left him there and I, um, clearly haven’t been back to work since,” he says lamely. 

“So, hold on.” Taeyong presses his fingers to his temple. “You’ve been sleeping with Johnny for however long, and you have — or had — feelings for him, and you don’t think he returns them. Right?” 

“Right.” 

“But you never told him you felt that way. Were you kind of… expecting him to read your mind about that?” 

Taeyong winces a little, as if expecting Ten to snap at him, but Ten just sighs and nods. 

“I guess so. Really fucking dumb of me, now that I think about it.” 

They take another shot each, letting the silence hang between them. 

“I’m confused,” Taeyong admits.

“I don’t blame you.” Ten drags a finger through the condensation spots the bottles have left behind on the table. “It’s kind of how we got in this mess in the first place. We just never talked about anything.” 

Taeyong leans forward. “If you did, though,” he posits, tapping his hands on the table, “right now, what would you say to him?” 

Since that night, Ten’s had a million imaginary conversations in his head with Johnny, staging each one like some sort of twisted theatre exercise. They’ve run the gamut from _fuck you, you toyed with my heart like this and the thought of you makes me sick_ , to _please never leave me again, I think I’ll die without you, I hadn’t considered what forever meant until I saw your eyes_. None of them are what he wants, and all of them only make him feel worse. 

For now, he tries to say it as simply as he can. “I-I want us to be a real thing. I was in denial of it until it was way too late, and now… now I’m not even sure he cared about me in the first place.” 

“I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t known Johnny nearly as long as I’ve known you, but he’s not _heartless_. Even how he looks at you, it’s…” Taeyong seems to be searching for the right words. “He loves you. Maybe just not the way you want.” 

_How do I even want him to love me?_ Ten thinks. Some part of him knows it's true, that Johnny does love him, that soft, stolen kisses in the morning and words only they can understand aren't just a fluke. But Ten is selfish with love and wants all or none of it. He thought he had laid claim to Johnny's heart long ago, absorbed in the expectation that he would love him back, that he even deserved Johnny's love at all. This, he assumes, is his reward for his carelessness. Careless with Johnny, careless with himself, and he's been left throwing popcorn at the screen of his own home movies, watching himself make the same mistakes.

“Yeah, but it’s just that… I think,” he starts, then swallows thickly. “I think... even if he does, I love him more than he loves me. And I… I can’t handle that.” 

Taeyong's face falls.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

Maybe it's the alcohol, or the realization that he's run himself ragged chasing something he only believed was there, but the tears slip down his cheeks before he's able to stop them. He rubs at his eyes and Taeyong squeezes himself beside him, not caring that they barely fit together.

“It's okay,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms protectively around him. “It's okay.”

It’s not, and they both know it, but Ten buries his face in his chest and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. He thought he was done with this already, that he’d spilled every tear in his body that he had,  but the well’s opened back up and he’s crying in public again, pathetically, sobbing like a child. He cries and cries, thinking of Johnny and mourning their strange, sad, masochistic, beautiful fandango like the dead, consumed by his own cowardice while trying to invent a world where he always says the right thing at the right time, a world where he didn’t stand in the rain and scream at the only man he’s ever loved, a world where Johnny loves him back. 

He doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore. 


	9. Chapter 9

All Donghyuck can see when he opens his eyes is the sun. Whining, he shoves himself further down on the bed  — Mark’s bed — and throws the covers over his face. His tossing and turning wakes Mark up in turn, who curses and fumbles for his glasses next to him. 

“Sorry,” he grunts, hopping out of bed to draw the curtains. “Should have closed those last night, my bad.” 

Donghyuck pokes his head out and, after adjusting to the now-bearable light, takes in the sight of Mark stretching, half-awake. His eyes drift down the tight muscles of his back to the waistband of his boxers, which, to Donghyuck’s chagrin, he had opted to slip on before they both slept. To say last night was fun would be an understatement: Mark had been surprisingly agreeable to all of Donghyuck’s demands, no matter how bratty, even putting on his glasses and letting Donghyuck ride him. He was gentle and permissive when he needed to be, and dominant when Donghyuck whined too loudly or talked back too much, turning him over in a quick movement and fucking him stupid before Donghyuck even had the chance to squeak. He thanks his lucky stars that he doesn’t have work today, because he’s sure his knees will buckle the moment he stands up. Mostly, though, he’s never laughed so much during sex, because Mark finds _everything_ funny, up to and including hitting his head on the bedpost, and Donghyuck had to laugh too, hopelessly endeared to him. 

“Come here, hyung,” he implores, making grabby hands at him.

Mark obliges, crawling back into bed and getting an arm around Donghyuck. “You look like you slept well.” 

“I did.” Donghyuck snuggles into his touch, laying his head on his chest. “I’m kind of a cuddler, in case you couldn’t tell.” 

“You’re a barnacle,” Mark says dryly, though he looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Seriously, your grip…” 

“Not my fault you’re so comfortable. And warm, Jesus, you must be nice in the winter. No wonder you’re Canadian.” 

That finally makes Mark laugh, a cute hiccuping sound that rumbles pleasantly through his chest, and Donghyuck squishes his cheek into him more, sure that he must have the sappiest expression on his face. He thinks of what he said to Mark before about being his, the both of them silently understanding that their relationship was far from a business exchange now. Mark had only asked Donghyuck if that was what _he_ wanted, never answering the question himself, and Donghyuck knows that he could have just set himself up for failure. He knows he shouldn’t get used to it, the heavenly warmth he feels laying on Mark like this with Mark’s fingers carding through his hair, because Mark could very well crumple him up and throw him away just as easily as he had stolen Donghyuck’s heart. 

“You’ve got enough for pigtails here,” Mark says. 

Donghyuck tries not to move his head. “Would I look good in them?” 

“Oh, yeah. Your patrons would go apeshit.” He pauses, then lets out another laugh. “Schoolgirl Donghyuck…”

“Shut up, stop,” he gasps, turning to face Mark. “I’m not doing that.” 

Mark looks so pleased with himself and Donghyuck has to hold back the urge to smack him. “Why not? Your thighs are amazing, you’d probably triple your money in a night wearing a plaid skirt. Fuck, I’d pay twice the cover charge just to see that.” 

“You pervert! I’d look like my sister!” he giggles in spite of himself. 

“You have a sister?” 

Abruptly, Donghyuck stops giggling, realizing he’s about to go down a road with Mark that he didn’t anticipate. 

“Yeah, we’re twins.” 

“Wow. So girl Donghyuck does exist.” 

Donghyuck moves back to where he was before, facing away from him and shutting his eyes, hoping that Mark will drop the topic. “Sort of.”

He doesn’t. “What does she do?”

It’s a question of polite curiosity, a getting-to-know you that Donghyuck had so tactfully avoided before this moment, but Donghyuck doesn’t know if he wants to subject Mark to his answer and all of the baggage that comes with it. He could lie, just as he’s done with other patrons or people looking to make friendly conversation, but Mark isn’t some other patron anymore. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her in… maybe a year.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A long silence follows and Donghyuck doesn’t dare to open his eyes. Had it really been a year since he had last seen Dongsoon? Through the long nights and blurry days, she feels like a decades-old memory, a fragment of his life before the club that he had swept beneath the carpet the minute he walked into Taeyong’s office. Maybe he’s been trying to keep her that way. 

“Did something happen? Hold on, no.” Mark shakes his head, his tone apologetic. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.” 

His hand comes back up to stroke Donghyuck’s hair, his movements gentler and more deliberate this time, and Donghyuck sighs through his nose. 

“No, it’s… it’s okay. I don’t talk to my parents either, actually.” 

Mark is quiet, as though he’s afraid saying too much will make Donghyuck close back up again. Eyes still shut, Donghyuck sees their faces swim before him, a perfect family portrait he had cut himself out of. 

“I was in my last year of high school when they caught me with a guy I was messing around with, and… they’re conservative, so you can imagine how that went.” 

“Oh, fuck.” Mark tenses up.

It had been a Friday night, Donghyuck remembers that much, and he had him over under the guise of studying. He had done it so many times before that it seemed bulletproof to him, up until the moment the door swung open as the boy was between Donghyuck’s legs. He doesn’t tell Mark how both his mother and father had slapped him across the face, shouting at him as he cried and pleaded and apologized, making him promise that he would never so much as _look_ at another boy again, but Mark seems to understand this. 

“You have no idea. They didn’t kick me out, but they started talking about God and sinning and where they should send me so I could get ‘help.’ My sister tried to stand up for me, but they blew her off.”

“Shit.” 

“So I just packed up and went one night. Didn’t leave a note or anything. I just got on the train and left. And that’s — ”

Mark interrupts him. “Wait. Come up here.” 

“Why?”

“Just… I want to hold you.” 

He wraps his other arm around Donghyuck and Donghyuck moves until his face is tucked into Mark’s neck, hands coming up to clutch at his back as Mark kisses the top of his head. Despite the tears welling up in his eyes that he’s trying to push back, Donghyuck knows, somehow, that this holds meaning for Mark too, that _something between us_ hadn’t just been a ploy to get him into bed. This is him showing his heart to Mark and Mark handling it tenderly, cradling it like a jewel, and he feels safe. 

More kisses fall on the crown of his head before Mark pulls back, barely. “Okay. Keep going.” 

They’re looking into each other’s eyes now, and Donghyuck absentmindedly fixes Mark’s glasses on his face. “There’s not much left to say. I came here, found this job, and I’m doing okay on my own. That’s all.” 

“Your family hasn’t tried to find you?” 

“Honestly?” Donghyuck swallows hard. “Once they saw I was gone, they were probably relieved.”

Painful as it was to say, Donghyuck’s already convinced himself of that much over the past year. He hadn’t gone far, and it wasn’t like he was trying very hard to hide. It was both a relief and a knife to the gut when he didn’t see his face on posters around the city, reassuring and taunting him that they didn’t care enough to find him, that he was free to live his own life but that he could never go home again.

Mark is silent again for a minute, then notices that Donghyuck is looking at him with a concerned expression. “Oh, sorry. I was just trying to think of how to say this without sounding like… therapy-ish.” 

“No, tell me,” Donghyuck presses, though he’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. 

“Do you think… maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to talk to your sister? Like, your parents… you don’t owe them anything. But it sounds like your sister cares a lot about you, and, I don’t know, she’s probably worried.” He scratches the back of his head. “I don’t know. It’s just a thought.” 

Leaving Dongsoon had been the hardest part about running away, and the guilt was unbearable at first. She had been the only one on his side, the one who comforted him after their parents’ bedroom door was closed, and he had abandoned her. 

“I could… try. If she even wants to talk to me.” He shifts around. “She’s probably so pissed.” 

“If my brother disappeared on me like that too, yeah, I’d be pissed, but I’d at least like to know he wasn’t dead, or worse.” 

Donghyuck nods, exhaling deeply. “Sorry I just, like, dumped this all on you. You’re the first person I’ve told since I left, actually. The others at the club don’t even know.” 

“Wow, really? I should be flattered that you trust me enough, then. For whatever reason.” He presses his lips to Donghyuck’s forehead. “It probably doesn’t mean a lot coming from me, but I like you the way you are. I like you so much.” 

He blushes and Donghyuck grabs his face, showering him with kisses across his cheeks and nose and lips, if only to hide the fact that his heart is now racing a mile a minute and if he doesn’t keep his mouth occupied, he might just tell Mark that he loves him. It’s a terrible way of saying thank you, thank you for listening, for being the person I didn’t know I needed, but it’s what he can manage, and with a laugh, Mark gets his arms around his waist and rolls over so Donghyuck’s on top of him. 

“So, about that plaid skirt?” he teases.

“I’m gonna need you to shut up right now, Mark.” 

* * *

Donghyuck finally leaves Mark’s apartment in the afternoon, after cooking a meal for the both of them and convincing Mark to play his guitar for him a little bit, with Mark countering that he would only play Donghyuck sang. It felt right, resting his head on Mark’s shoulder and singing softly, even as Mark would turn and kiss his forehead, making him blush and stumble over a phrase. He had been on the verge of asking Mark what they were so many times over, only to lose his nerve when Mark would even look at him. Maybe it didn’t matter yet, and when Donghyuck kissed him goodbye for the fourth, fifth, and sixth time, he figured that labels were overrated anyway. 

Still, the weight of their conversation couldn’t be ignored, and, curled up on the couch in his own apartment, Donghyuck’s finger hovers over his sister’s number in his phone. Mark had been right, it wouldn’t be the end of the world to call her, but his stomach is in knots. Part of him hopes she’s changed her number in the interim, while another just wants to get it over with, to at least try to apologize for everything. 

He taps the call button and tries not to let his hands shake as the dial sound fills the room.

“Hello?”

He nearly hangs up at the sound of her voice, but he forces himself to get the words out.

“Dongsoon, it’s… it’s me.” 

“Oh my God,” she gasps, and he can hear rustling, like she’s just gotten up. “Hyuck?”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “I want to talk to you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (gets pulled offstage by vaudeville hook, again)
> 
> i just realized that the last couple of parts have been so angsty.... we're nearing the end of this fic so it may get better or worse, i'm not gonna say lol. as always i love you guys and i hope you enjoyed this one!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, really really sorry for the super slow updates again! thanks everybody for sticking around, this was an extremely tough chapter to write especially as we’re coming close to the end of this fic ahh

Doyoung hates Yukhei. 

He says a silent apology in his head to his mother as he glowers at him. Jungwoo is perched on Yukhei’s lap again, giggling like usual and keeping the champagne flowing steadily. If Doyoung has to send one more bottle over there, he thinks he might just break it over Yukhei’s head himself. The jealousy is clawing at his chest again, and maybe he’s in a particularly weird mood tonight, but it’s worse than usual. He tries to remind himself of what Jungwoo said, that it’s just a job, that it means nothing, but it’s easier said than done, especially when Yukhei’s got his arm around his boyfriend’s waist and is looking at him like he’s made of gold. 

Yukhei can’t love Jungwoo, Doyoung thinks. He doesn’t know him the way Doyoung does. He’s never seen him at home in his pajamas, falling asleep on the couch because he’s too lazy to move to the bed, never seen him bent over the bathroom sink retouching the blond of his hair, never seen him at his most vulnerable, bruised and shaken. Jungwoo has never told him that he likes him best, or whispered to him, in the dark confines of their newly shared bed, that he makes him feel safe, that he’s never felt this way about anybody before, his voice quiet but full of conviction. He may love the _idea_ of Jungwoo, but he’s chasing a fantasy, a mirage. 

When Doyoung looks at Jungwoo, though, he knows he’s seen that expression on his face before. It’s the same face he makes when he’s listening to Doyoung talk, whether across the bar or curled up in bed next to him, eyes sparkling with a soft, dreamy smile crossing his lips, and it leaves a bitter taste in Doyoung’s mouth. He wants to believe Jungwoo’s words , doesn’t want to accuse him of anything, but the sickness and anger are begging to be let out, threatening to destroy everything they have together, and Doyoung is tired. He’s tired of fighting it all back. 

Yukhei pulls Jungwoo even closer, making him giggle, and presses a firm kiss on his cheek. Jungwoo squirms, blushing madly, and before Doyoung can even force himself to look away, he returns the kiss to Yukhei’s jaw. 

It’s enough. It’s too much.

His first instinct is to make good on his impulses, take a bottle of champagne and smash it over Yukhei’s head, if only to feel that brief spark of satisfaction. He steps away instead, mumbling to Taeil about how he needs a quick break and he’ll be back in five, and darts out the back door into the alleyway. The cool air hits his face and he flinches, shaking it away. It’s taking nearly all of his strength to keep from boiling over, from putting his fist through the concrete wall next to him. Agitated, he runs his hands through his hair, not caring that he’ll look a mess when he finally has to go back inside.  He should have known what he was getting into, falling for the flirtiest person he’s ever met when he’s a ball of nerves and jealous tension. Maybe he’s nothing but a number, a name on the list of men who would give Jungwoo anything as soon as he asked. Jungwoo had entrusted him with his heart, but Doyoung doesn’t feel like he has it, not when it seems like countless men are fighting for it night after night, men who could never love Jungwoo the way he needs to be loved.

He forces himself to count to five, then ten, then twenty, before he goes back inside the club, slipping back behind the bar like nothing had happened. Yukhei seems to want Jungwoo for the entire evening, still holding him on his lap, and Doyoung doubts Jungwoo even noticed he was gone. The music is too loud, his hands are too cold, and his chest aches with a beast he’s afraid he’ll have to let out sooner or later.

The longest shift of Doyoung’s life goes by before the doors shut, and he pretends to be busy  — isn’t that all he does nowadays? — stacking glasses to avoid the look Jungwoo gives him. He has approximately ten minutes before Jungwoo comes back out from the dressing room, all smiles, and Doyoung has to do what he does best and cover up how he feels. The image of Jungwoo’s lips on Yukhei’s skin is still seared into his brain and he groans to himself, rubbing his eyes in a feeble attempt to get it out. Part of him wishes he had given into his baser desires, driving that bottle into Yukhei’s skull and watching the glass break, getting back at the man who doesn’t even know he exists for daring to touch his Jungwoo, snarling like an animal all the while. It’s a strangely pleasant thought. 

Eleven minutes have passed when Jungwoo saunters over to where Doyoung is sitting on a barstool, still engrossed in his odd, primal fantasy.  “Can we go back to yours?” he asks, sounding sleepy. 

“Sure, whatever.” It comes out rougher than he expected.

Jungwoo seems to snap awake at that, tilting his head in the way that always makes Doyoung feel guilty. “Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah.” Doyoung gets up, still not looking at him, and ushers them to the door. “Let’s go.” 

The walk to the subway station and the ride home are both expectedly awkward, with Jungwoo throwing him side glances and opening his mouth as if to say something, only to close it right after. Doyoung wants to smile, to reassure him that he’s just tired and that he’s fine, but when he tries to, Jungwoo isn’t looking at him, staring straight out of the window. A feeling of dread starts to gnaw at his stomach. 

When they get to his apartment, Jungwoo doesn’t even bother sitting down. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks. 

Doyoung, toeing off his shoes, keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “I’m great.”

“You just seem… tense. It’s not something I did, is it?” 

“No,” Doyoung says on autopilot, then shakes his head. “Well, actually. I was wondering something.” 

Jungwoo looks at him quizzically. It’s futile to keep it in, especially when Jungwoo _knows_ something’s up, and letting it fester won’t do either of them any favors. He clears his throat. 

“What did you have to kiss him for?” 

“Who?” Jungwoo’s brow furrows, as if he has to actually think about it. “Yukhei?”

“Yeah. Right in front of me, I mean… seriously?”

He doesn’t even bother to mask the bitterness in his voice. He’s so tired, and the last thing he wants to do is explode at Jungwoo, but it’s out of his control now. His lips make words he has no intention of saying. 

“It was just a peck. I do it all the time with all my patrons, it doesn’t mean anything,” Jungwoo says, sounding a little annoyed. 

Doyoung grits his teeth. Of course it _doesn’t mean anything_ to Jungwoo. The problem is  — and it’s a big fucking problem — it means too much to Doyoung, and it’s killing him. “You keep saying that, but you —” 

“But I what?” 

Jungwoo’s expression has hardened into one of almost anger. Arms folded protectively in front of his chest, he steps closer, as if daring Doyoung to accuse him of something. 

“I don’t know.” Doyoung unclenches his jaw, trying to take a breath before everything completely goes to shit. “It’s just… different with him for some reason.” 

The air between them grows heavy and uncomfortable. Jungwoo looks away, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. 

“You know I’ve slept with him, right?”

Doyoung freezes as Jungwoo, suddenly cold and unflinching, levels his gaze with him again. The floor feels like it’s falling out from underneath him as he stares, heart seizing in his chest. A new image brands itself into his mind, Jungwoo in bed with Yukhei, pliant and eager the way Doyoung thought only he could see, and it’s painful, burning. 

“Why would you tell me this?” he manages to ask. 

“Because you’re being ridiculous!”

Doyoung shakes his head in disbelief. “How am I being ridiculous?” And, because his mouth seems to only want to ask stupid questions, “Aren’t you not supposed to sleep with your patrons?” 

“No one says we can’t,” Jungwoo huffs, scrubbing at his eyes. His face is flushed red, but Doyoung can’t even find it cute. He feels sick, betrayed, like he’s just been stabbed, and he has a thousand questions that wither and die at the sight of Jungwoo’s hardened eyes. 

“So do you have feelings for him, or something?” 

“No.”

“Really?”

“I said no! I only did it ‘cause I make the most off him.” Jungwoo says, agitated. “It was just once and it was way before we started dating.” 

It’s of little comfort to Doyoung. At this point, the jealousy’s taken over his body, all anger and bile, sitting back and letting that awful, ugly beast tear its way out of him and destroy what he loves, fueled by suspicion and envy and the worst parts of him, the parts he tried so desperately to keep hidden away. “The way you look at him, it’s —” 

Jungwoo almost shrieks in frustration, hands balled up tightly. “Oh my God! It’s not like that! Why can’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you,” Doyoung says, though it sounds hollow even in his ears, “but you _know_ I’m jealous.” 

“Well, you need to stop,” he snaps. “I’m sick of this. And for you to assume I’m cheating on you?”

“I never said that!” 

For a moment, Jungwoo looks like he might cry, but a fury soon sets into his face that it startles Doyoung, making him shut his mouth. He moves closer so they’re nearly touching. 

“Do you know how humiliating it is to have to sit there and act like an airhead because these fucking men keep my lights on?” he spits, voice low. “To act like I enjoy being treated like a piece of meat? Calling them ‘oppa’ when I’m older than some of them? I’m not a person to them. I’m a _doll_.” 

He’s never seen Jungwoo this angry before. He didn’t even think he had the capacity for this inside of him. It strikes him suddenly how intimidating Jungwoo is like this, standing up to his full height, and he takes a step back, only for Jungwoo to follow him that small distance. 

“I know! I know.” He holds up his hands. “I just want you to be safe.”

The red marks stinging Jungwoo’s skin on night weren’t easy to forget, and Doyoung had taken it upon himself, consciously or unconsciously, to protect him after that, but how had it even gotten to this point? There had been a line crossed somewhere, maybe even before he had kissed him in that cramped room under the club, mouth soft, where his concern had decayed from altruism to possessiveness, grown teeth and settled itself into a corner of Doyoung’s heart that blackened it, becoming something he can barely recognize. 

“I’m not stupid, Doyoung,” he mumbles, a bitter laugh coming out between words. “I don’t need saving.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say.” 

“Yes, it is. You want to own me. Can’t you just treat me like a person?” 

Doyoung runs his hands over his face. He hadn’t realized he was sweating. “Okay, now _you’re_ being ridiculous. Just forget I said anything.” 

Jungwoo flares up again, the fire re-ignited. “Am I just supposed to smile for you like it’s okay? Is that what you like?” 

“Jungwoo, please ,” Doyoung tries, but it’s not enough. It had been his fault, hadn’t it? He should have just gone to bed and slept it off, instead of having this conversation in the half-dark where he’s watching everything they’ve built together crumble, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, couldn’t control himself, and past the rush he got from letting it out, he’s stuck with the pieces. He forces himself to look at Jungwoo’s face. 

“I’m not your trophy. I’m not just going to let you kiss me and fuck me and think that entitles you to me. And I’m sick of you being jealous, I really am.” 

His voice cracks a little, and Doyoung realizes belatedly that there are tears in Jungwoo’s eyes, threatening to spill over. 

“I thought you were different.” A pause, a breath. “I wanted you to be different.” 

If any of the tears fall, Doyoung doesn’t get to see, because Jungwoo turns away, shrinking back into himself, and the horror sets in. He sees hands pinning Jungwoo to the seat of a club booth, pressing hard enough on his arms to bruise, calling him things no one that sweet should ever be called as Jungwoo screams and all joy leaves his face, and Doyoung recognizes the hands as _his_.

When had he become the monster he was trying to protect Jungwoo from all along?

“Jungwoo, wait,” he tries, pathetically, but Jungwoo doesn’t look back.

“Don’t come after me,” Jungwoo says over his shoulder, and he slips out the door. 

Breathing hard, Doyoung takes a few backward steps, knees buckling as he hits the couch and lands on it. Hot tears prick at his eyes and he lets them, out of anger at himself rather than pity. It was on him, all of it, shards of glass embedded in his bloody palms. Everything he had with Jungwoo, gone, and he’s falling, choking, drowning in the endless sea, grasping desperately at the ashes of what he’d burned away, at nothing. 

He watches as the lights slowly fade out into the dark. 


	11. Chapter 11

The void at the bottom of the suitcase isn’t filling up, no matter what Ten throws into it, and he’s getting desperate. It’s the coward’s way out to just up and leave, but Ten doesn’t know how much longer he can stay where he is without losing it completely. He hasn’t been back at the club for so long that even Doyoung had texted him, asking if he’s dead or something, saying in his own roundabout way that he’s worried, and Ten’s replied to everyone’s messages with a short, curt assurance that he’s fine, that he’s just sorting some things out and he’ll be back to work soon enough, but only Taeyong knows it’s all a lie. Really, he just wants to be anywhere but here, where everything reminds him too much of Johnny. He’d much rather go back to Bangkok, back to a place where no one knows him as Ten, the host, but as Ten, the bright, talented boy who supposedly ran to pursue a dream, and explain to his mother that none of that happened, that all he found in Seoul was people who admired his beauty but never loved him, who paid for their allotted time and left, the sheets cold on the other side of the bed. He’s prepared for however she might react. It would be better than staying. 

A knock comes at the door and Ten groans. Taeyong had been coming by to check on him almost daily since the night at their usual spot, often just sitting by the bed as Ten cocooned himself in blankets, barely saying a word. There’s little they can talk about anymore. Had the club been owned by anyone other than him, Ten would have been fired by now, but Taeyong is kindly, foolishly keeping him on his payroll, and asking him please, won’t you at least sit up and eat something? He’s grateful, but right now he just wants to finish packing and figure out _something_ , anything. 

“Don’t you have better things to do besides stalk me, Taeyong?” He swings the door open, trying to look more annoyed than I-was-just-crying-again. “I’m in the middle of—”

Except it’s not Taeyong on the other side. It’s Johnny, wide-eyed, and with an undignified yelp, Ten slams the door in his face and bolts it. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears Johnny say. 

Ten’s knees buckle and he sinks down onto the floor, pressing his back as hard as he can into the door and slapping his hand over his mouth. _Go away, go away, go away,_ he chants in his mind, praying that he had just imagined him, that the sad-looking man standing outside was just a product of his brain running on too much sleep — or not enough, he doesn’t remember which.

He can’t face Johnny. Not like this, not ever. He would have been content just leaving, his last memory of Johnny being his stricken, rain-soaked shadow, forcing himself to forget what it was like to lie in his arms. It would have been easier to leave the loose end as it was, to try and build himself a new heart somewhere else, letting Johnny keep the pieces that he created because it’s his fault, he won, and Ten just wants to retreat with his tail between his legs. But Johnny still loves to make things difficult, just as Ten remembers.

“Ten, listen to me. Please.” 

Ten shakes his head, even though Johnny can't see him. He hears a heavy sigh from the other side, and wonders if Johnny can hear how ragged his breathing is. 

“Maybe you can't even hear me right now. I don't know. I just want to say this and then I'll leave you alone.”

Something keeps Ten where he is, though he could easily run to the farthest corner of his apartment and cover his ears; jump onto the fire escape and hang from it like the room is burning, even. What was there even left to say about the two of them? Was Johnny looking for closure? Ten knows as well as anyone that there’s no such thing, that people drift apart and leave, relationships end as quickly and wildly as they started, hearts race and hearts break and there’s no way to wrap all of that up nicely, tie it off with a conversation through a locked door. It just doesn’t happen. 

Johnny sighs again. 

“If I could stand out here and say sorry over and over, it still wouldn’t be enough. I hurt you. I know. And if you never want to see me again, I get it. I took what we had for granted and I didn’t even realize how you felt.”

Ten rests his head on his knees. At least he admitted it. For all the brute force that was part and parcel of his job, Johnny could never be cruel on purpose. He never meant to break Ten’s heart, but he did anyway, and still Ten winces at the guilt in his voice. 

“But it meant something to me, too.” There’s a pause, an exhalation that’s nearly a resigned laugh. “Hell, it meant a lot. When you asked me if you weren’t good enough, it was kind of funny, ‘cause I never thought I was good enough for you, either.” 

The air seems to have been sucked out of the room, and in shock, Ten’s hand falls away from his mouth. He stares at the floor in front of him, slack-jawed and dumb. There was no way he meant it like _that_. Johnny had always been more than enough. Ten had always assumed he had been the weaker link in the relationship, always more selfish, demanding, moody, while Johnny had been the ideal, infinitely patient and giving, nearly host material himself. Too good for Ten, in short. When had there ever been a world where _Johnny_ had been the undeserving one?

It’s quiet on the other side of the door for a moment. Ten reaches for the knob, briefly afraid that Johnny’s left, but stops himself when he hears another soft inhale, as if Johnny is trying to prepare himself for what he’s about to say. 

“Waking up with you next to me? Seeing your toothbrush on my sink? It’s stupid, but small things like that, I just…” Johnny pauses again, and Ten can imagine how he’s probably shaking his head, trying to keep himself on track. “I always thought about how lucky I was that you thought I was worthy of your time, and your smile, and, well, everything.”

With a concentrated effort to keep quiet, Ten moves, unsticking his back from the door and turning to face it instead. Tears are starting to come to his eyes, but he doesn’t bother wiping them away. For the first time in a long time, he feels unburdened. He had nearly forgotten what it felt like to breathe and not have it take a herculean effort. He ought to be pissed, annoyed at least, that they could have avoided all of this if they hadn’t been so damn oblivious. It’s like the terrible rom-coms that Donghyuck forces everyone to watch with him when they have downtime, scenes of dramatic confessions at airports or with grand romantic gestures that make Donghyuck cry and Ten roll his eyes, but now that he’s somehow found himself in one, he rather feels like laughing.

“I never told you how I really felt about you, and I’m so angry at myself for that. I think it’s just been that way from the beginning. And the feelings never went away. I-I don’t know if I’m making sense, but I love you, Ten. I always have. I’ve just been too stupid to say it.” His voice is heavy and thick. Ten realizes this is the first time he’s ever heard Johnny cry. “I love you.” 

The words aren’t unfamiliar to Ten. He’s had to politely rebuff regular patrons professing their love for him, genuine or lustful, sober or drunken, and awkwardly look away from men he’s dated who were leagues more interested in the relationship than he was. But here, from the lips of the only one — _his_ only one — they’re new and shining, even through tears, and it’s the first time Ten’s heard them and felt like they were _meant_ for him. It doesn’t feel like the other times he’s cried, not the pathetic, painful, wracking sobs, but a cascade of relief.

Johnny loves him, has always loved him, and Ten doesn’t need to run anymore. 

“I hope you heard all that. I’ll... go now.”

He hears Johnny starting down the hallway, and no, he isn’t going to let him leave this time. Stumbling to his feet, he yanks the door open. 

“Stop crying, you look ugly,” he says, even though he’s an absolute mess himself, and tugs Johnny inside the apartment before he even has the chance to react. He’s sick of talking, he’s missed him so badly it aches, and he doesn’t care that both of their faces are streaked with tears, so he cups his face and kisses him. 

Johnny doesn’t know what to do with his hands for a minute, and Ten thinks maybe he’s squeezing his cheeks a little bit too tightly, but he needs to feel Johnny on his skin, needs to know that this is happening and that he’s alive. He lets go to give them both time to catch their breath, and Johnny barely looks like he has it together. 

“I…” Johnny wipes hastily at his eyes. “Sorry. I must look terrible.” 

“You do,” Ten sniffles. “Um. Thank you for saying all that. It’s nice to… well, I don’t know. It makes sense now.” 

They’re still standing close, uncomfortably crammed in the entranceway before Johnny has the good sense to close the door behind them. He looks flustered, like he didn’t expect Ten to listen, much less let him in and kiss him like he never had before. Peering behind Ten at the mess he’s left, his eyes widen as they fall upon the suitcase. 

“Were you… leaving?” 

“Oh.” Ten knows he must look like an idiot, but it’s not like he can sink any lower, not with Johnny. “I was thinking about it, I guess. I just thought that if I… ran… it would be better.” 

“And you’re so thin,”Johnny chokes up again, putting his hands on Ten’s upper arms, which Ten hadn’t even noticed had gotten skinnier over the past… who knows how long. “God, I’m sorry I did this to you.” 

Ten shakes his head; the last thing he wants is for Johnny to blame himself for everything. “No, it’s not your fault,” he reassures him, reaching up to wipe at a few errant tears on Johnny’s cheek. It’s odd to see him so vulnerable like this. “It’s kind of on both of us, isn’t it? We’re both… so stupid.” 

“But it took me this long to tell you how I felt. I wish we never had to go through all this, that I could have told you from the start.” 

“John,” Ten murmurs. 

Their eyes meet, and Ten thinks of a million things to say. He had rehearsed this moment, after all, gone through every possible outcome over and over in his head, but never one where he had Johnny in his arms again, eyes wet and everything said and unsaid between them hanging delicately in the balance. For all his anguish then, the answer now is simple. 

“I love you,” he says, and Johnny smiles, fucking finally, and Ten presses himself into his chest, turning his head to hear the heartbeat he’s ached to hear again for so long. It’s firm, fast, strong, and Ten knows it belongs to him this time. Johnny kisses the top of his head, over and over, his sighs giving way to a quiet, relieved laugh. 

A minute passes, and Ten is still tired of words, but he asks anyway. “Who even let you in?”

Johnny laughs again, the sound as warm as the evening sun. “I was working up the courage to press your buzzer when your neighbor recognized me. She was like, ‘aren't you Ten’s boyfriend?’ and she just opened the door.”

“Oh my God,” Ten groans, already running through the mental list of who in his building was nosy enough to even assume that. “That’s so embarrassing. We thought we were so stealthy.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have to be anymore.”

“Right. Not that anyone at the club will be surprised.” He laughs to himself too, surprised he’s even thinking about work at a time like this. They have some explaining to do. 

Johnny rests his chin on the crown of Ten’s head, ignoring the whine of “too heavy” that comes from beneath him. “Honestly? Some of them probably thought we were dating already.” 

“We should have been.” Ten pokes his finger into Johnny’s abdomen in a feeble attempt to get him to move, though he knows he would stay here forever if he could. “I can’t get over how stupid we are.”

“Me neither.” 

It’s imperfect, much like it had all started, much like they are. Ten thinks that maybe he’ll look back at this chapter of their relationship with embarrassment, groaning at his own dramatics and taking it as a lesson that he needs to get better at communicating, but all things considered, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He can get used to imperfection for Johnny’s sake. For their sakes. 

“John?”

“What is it?”

“I think I owe you a lighter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY johnten get a happy ending!! it's been a long time coming so i hope you guys out there who've had your hearts broken by their arc get some relief lol. we’ve only got about three chapters left to go, i can’t believe it
> 
> in other news, i am now over on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/transhyuck) and [curiouscat](https://www.curiouscat.me/transhyuck) if you want to follow me/ask questions/indulge in lovingly handcrafted shitposts! i’m always open to talk, whether it’s about this fic or literally anything else, so hit me up!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow uh.... i am really really sorry it took this long! holy shit i hope at least some of you are still around. writer's block is a total mf but i didn't want to leave this work unfinished, especially when everybody's been really lovely and supportive of it. thanks for sticking around (if you're here) and please enjoy!!

From his stiff perch on the bench, Donghyuck shades his eyes with his hand. It’s bright out, the sun pleasantly warm, unlike the day Mark kissed him, and he had asked Dongsoon to meet him here. He doesn’t know why parks are becoming a thing in his life now, but maybe he likes the feeling of anonymity and exposure at the same time. Not like being at the club is much different. Maybe it’s just the environment where he feels most in control, and he’s trying to grasp at every bit of it he can get, because part of him is scared to death of seeing his sister again. He wants to apologize to her, just her, even though he told himself from a young age to never apologize for anything, try to fill up the past year with an explanation, an assurance that he never wanted to abandon her, but they are their parents’ children, and their shadows loom uncomfortably. It’s a miracle, he thinks, that Dongsoon had even stayed on the line during their first call. He had expected her to be angry, and rightfully so, but she had cried instead. He didn’t realize how much he tried to numb himself to it, to pretend his family was from another life that he half-remembered, until he found himself in tears with her. Little was said on the phone, but they had at least agreed to meet in person, and Donghyuck is almost afraid he doesn’t remember what she looks like.

They had been nearly indistinguishable as children, aside from the obvious differences in hairstyle and choice of dress. She had the same dewy skin, full lips, a glint in her eye, but it was Donghyuck who was always getting into trouble, Donghyuck who dreamed too big and spoke his mind too much and kissed boys in secret. Dongsoon, in comparison, was the perfect child, unfailingly polite to adults, always kicking him under the table to shut his mouth when he was about to talk back to their parents, being the mediator when Donghyuck was holed up in his room crying, begging them, _don’t make him leave, I know you're upset, but he didn’t do anything wrong, don’t hit him anymore, please, please._

A year ago, he never could have forgotten his own face. But now, he’s—

“Hyuck!”

He looks up. Dongsoon is hurrying over to him, somewhere between a walk and a run, and he gets up and stands there blankly for a moment, almost as if he’s unsure how to greet her. She pulls him into a hug. 

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” she says with her face pressed into his shoulder, and Donghyuck can't help but well up again. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can say, even as he feels Dongsoon shake her head. “I’m so sorry.”

They stay that way for a long time, Donghyuck hastily trying to blink tears out of his eyes. He wonders how much of a difference a year apart has made for the both of them: genetically identical, yet in separate worlds. Dongsoon looks exhausted, a far cry from the bright, energetic child she was, that they were, and he feels as though he’s robbed her of something.

Dongsoon is the first to pull back, her eyes also wet. “I missed you so much, I thought you'd never—” She keeps shaking her head, squeezing Donghyuck's arm as if she’s afraid he’ll slip through her fingers. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier,” he starts, but Dongsoon won’t have it.

“You don’t have to apologize.” She wipes delicately at her cheek, then moves to sit down on the bench with him. “I’m just glad you’re here.” 

There’s too much he wants to say, and none of it seems like the right place to start. He supposes he should start from the beginning, the night he left and got on the train, but he can’t seem to form the words. Dongsoon, seemingly picking up on this, breaks the silence. 

“After you left, where did you go?” 

“A hostel. Just… stayed there, tried to get my shit together.” 

In truth, it had been almost disappointingly uneventful. He had come to believe that running away from home was a dangerous, exciting process, but the boredom that soon overtook him put any of those notions out of his head. By the third day in a row of staring at the ceiling of the youth hostel, Donghyuck was itching to do anything besides wallow in his own hurt and self-pity. Even that had become boring after a while. _My parents don’t love me anymore, it’s fine, time to move on,_ he told himself, and before he knew it, he was sitting across from Taeyong, signing papers, hoping that whatever he was getting himself into would, in fact, allow him to move on. 

Dongsoon looks at him with a strange expression, as if she suspects him of hiding something, but it’s the truth. He clears his throat. “I have my own place now, though. What have you been up to?” 

“Studying,” she says, and Donghyuck remembers how often they used to talk about going to university — the same one, as children, because they didn’t have a concept of one without the other yet, then different ones as they grew up — and he can’t help the feeling of being left behind that strikes his heart. “I’m doing child psychology.”

“But you always wanted to be a nurse?” 

She shrugs. “I can still be. I just shifted focus, I guess.” 

They look at the ground, Donghyuck scrambling desperately for something else to say. He would love for the conversation to stay about them, ignoring the problem of their parents that’s making Donghyuck’s stomach twist in knots, because he doesn’t know if he can face it yet. 

Dongsoon brings it up anyway. “I know this is probably the last thing you want to talk about,” she says, voice cautious, “but Mom and Dad… they miss you too. They think you’re as good as dead at this point.”

Donghyuck’s chest tightens. “Did you tell them I called you?”

A sigh escapes her lips. “No. I didn’t want to ambush you like that, ‘cause they probably would have wanted to.” 

_As good as dead_. Donghyuck tries to imagine what his parents look like now. Somehow, he can only picture them as old, much older than they would be only a year after his departure. Had their hair turned white from the stress, laugh lines turning into deep wrinkles? He had assumed that they wouldn’t have been fazed much, and why would they be? They had driven him out, threatened to send him to all kinds of programs to “fix” him, all while telling him it was for his own good. He was a problem, and he simply removed himself from the equation. 

He kicks at a stray patch of grass. “I find it hard to believe they miss me.” 

“They do. Hell, there were police in our house for days, I don’t… I don’t know how they didn’t find you, honestly. It’s not like you went far.” She rubs at her brow. “I mean, you’re still their son, even though they didn’t necessarily—” Dongsoon winces, and Donghyuck can tell she’s searching for the right word, “ _agree_ with… who you are.” 

“Yeah. Well.” Donghyuck lets out a tiny snort. “I can’t pretend they didn’t do what they did. I don’t forgive them yet.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t think I ever will.”

“I know.” 

The awkward silence settles over them again. Donghyuck doesn’t know what else to say. Miss them as he might, a kind of distant ache that’s more evolutionary than anything else, the pleasantries could only last so long before the hurt would resurface. It wouldn’t even be worth it to go back, just for a second, and ask _why were you so willing to throw me away? I mattered to you that little?_ As far as he’s concerned, they gave up any entitlement they had to his life the minute he packed his bags and walked out the door. Maybe it’s better this way.

Dongsoon looks at him sideways, as if trying to guess at his thoughts. “So, are you working?”

It dawns on Donghyuck that, in his agonizing, he had completely forgotten to consider what Dongsoon would think of his — job? Profession? He isn’t ashamed of it, and never has been ashamed about much of anything, but this is different. He tries to keep his voice calm and even. “I’m a host.” 

“Oh, like at a restaurant?”

“No.” Donghyuck takes a breath. “At a club. A host club.”

Something shifts inside Dongsoon, and she sits up as though she’s just been shocked.

“You’re not… no one forced you into it, right?”

“Um, no?” It’s not that he didn’t expect this reaction. Forgiving and understanding as Dongsoon is, he figures it must come as an unpleasant surprise. If their roles had been reversed, he’s sure he would be just as surprised as she is. Still, the look in her eyes is more than enough to unsettle him. “I got the job myself.” 

Dongsoon steals a quick glance around them. “Why?”

“It pays well,” he offers, because it’s true, but Dongsoon doesn’t seem to buy it. 

“Isn’t it dangerous?” 

“No. Most of the time I’m just listening to people talk.” He looks away; the expression on her face is getting too much to handle. “They can’t touch me or anything, if that’s what you’re wondering. Not unless I let them.” 

“Unless you _let_ them?” Dongsoon says, and Donghyuck winces. Bad wording. “I’ve heard things about those clubs, Hyuck. How they force the hosts to—”

He holds up his hands, though he’s not sure if it’s to ward her off or protect himself. “No one's forcing me to do anything, I promise. My boss isn't like that.” 

Nothing he’s saying seems to convince Dongsoon. He had wondered for so long what his parents would think, seeing him work, only nineteen and in the laps of men with more money he could ever live to see, that he didn’t imagine how Dongsoon herself would react, her forehead scrunched and something resembling accusation in her eyes. It scares him.

“Hyuck, please.” She reaches over and lays a hand on his forearm. “You shouldn’t have to do this.” 

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Prostituting yourself to these men.”

Donghyuck pulls himself away. “Who says I am?” 

Everything feels suffocating for a moment. Was the notion that Donghyuck could be happy here too far removed for Dongsoon to understand? The club felt more like home than their house ever did, with parents that were disgusted with him and neighbors, friends he had to hide himself from, and all he ever wanted was a place to feel safe, and he had found it, finally, strange as it was.

“You have to come back home,” Dongsoon keeps going on. “We’ll explain everything to Mom and Dad, just... it isn’t right.” 

He gathers the courage to look at her again, and she looks as though she might cry. 

“Think about it, please,” she begs.

And so Donghyuck thinks.  
He thinks about Taeyong, parental almost to a fault, and Johnny, who declared himself to be Donghyuck’s dad only a week after they had first met, and Taeil, who never acts like the oldest but treats Donghyuck like his baby all the same. He thinks about the way Jungwoo clings to his arm, popping up in his vanity mirror and draping himself over him like he’s a puppy and not a head taller than Donghyuck. He thinks about Jaehyun, about Doyoung, the way they pretend to be — or actually are —annoyed with him, but ruffle his hair and rub his back affectionately, taking Donghyuck’s obnoxious cheek kisses in stride with a smile and roll of the eyes. He thinks about Ten doing his makeup for him on his first night working there, running off a mind-numbing list about what and what not to do with patrons in between dusting Donghyuck’s cheekbones with gold. He thinks about the time Yuta enlisted him to help him dye his hair in their dressing room, only for countless towels to be stained cherry red and for Taeyong to walk in and nearly have a stroke. He thinks about home.

He thinks about Mark.

Mark, the odd bright spot in his life, the one he least expected to find. Was he home to him now, too? Everything about him wrapped around Donghyuck’s heart tighter than anything he had ever experienced before. The idea of it all being too fast, too much, too hard barely concerned him anymore; it felt right, like he belonged, and all Donghyuck had to do was chase after and let himself fall into it, forget his shame and regrets and replace them with long, sweet nights, kisses that stayed on his lips for hours and hours afterwards, and the slow, pulsing rhythm of Mark’s heartbeat under his ear. 

“I can’t,” Donghyuck says, surprising even himself.

“What?”

“I’m happy here.” He takes Dongsoon’s hand, squeezing it firmly. “I know you’re worried, but I think… I’ve found where I’m supposed to be.” 

Dongsoon just stares, mouth slightly agape.

“There’s nothing left for me back home,” Donghyuck continues, a growing confidence to his voice. “You’re always gonna be my sister, but I need you to be happy for me, too. Can you do that?” 

There’s a flicker of doubt in her eyes, and Donghyuck doesn’t blame her for it. They’re not children anymore, far from it, but he can sense a part of her that wishes they still were, set on the same path, inseperable. He squeezes her hand one more time, and she finally nods, her expression clear.

“Okay.”

* * *

They part at the train station, Dongsoon holding him for a long time, Donghyuck promising to call her as often as possible. There’s no more discussion of their parents, and while the uneasy feeling is still here, Donghyuck is content to leave it as it is. The thought strikes him that Dongsoon could easily go home and tell them every word that came out of his mouth, but it doesn’t scare him nearly as much as it would have before. 

He watches her train depart, then turns on his heels and starts walking. The ground under him feels airy, and his feet seem to know where to go before his mind does. He ends up in front of a familiar building before he knows it. 

“Uh, yes?”

“Mark, it’s, um, it’s me.” He tries not to think too hard about how he and Mark apparently are on a _it’s me_ level now. “Can I come up?”

There’s fumbling on the other end. “Shit, yeah.”

The buzzer rings and he makes his way to the elevator. Mark answers his door looking rumpled and half-asleep, and Donghyuck feels a little bit like an idiot.  
“Are you all right?” Mark asks, opening the door wider to let Donghyuck in. 

“I’m okay, yeah. I didn't mean to, like…” He hesitates. “I didn't know where else to go.”

They sit on his couch, legs touching ever so slightly, and Mark looks at him, puzzled. “Did something happen?” 

_I think you’re what I’ve been looking for ever since I left home_ seems like a poor way to open up. He takes a breath instead. “I saw my sister.” 

Mark sits up abruptly, all traces of grogginess leaving his face. “Fuck, seriously?”

“Yeah, I called her and we just met up today.” 

“And so?” 

“I just… explained everything. My parents did actually look for me, and they want me back, and I told her I don’t want anything to do with them anymore, you know? I think it hurt her to hear that, but it’s true.” 

Mark’s hand finds his thigh, a gesture of comfort, and Donghyuck stops rambling for a second just to feel it. If he felt he was floating before, Mark’s touch is grounding him. As flustered as he always seems to be, Mark feels solid to Donghyuck, a place to return to, someone to tell him _slow down, you’re all right_. It’s what he needs, what he’s always needed.

“But, anyway, I told her what I do for a living now, and she got... weird about it. Said it was like I’m a prostitute or something. Her words.”

“You’re not,” Mark starts, and then shakes his head. “Wait, you don’t really need me to validate that. Keep going.” 

“She wanted me to come back home right away so I could stop working at the club, like it was a bad thing, and I just couldn’t imagine doing it.” _Couldn’t imagine leaving you, either_. “They feel more like family to me than my real family, honestly. I wouldn’t want to leave them like that.”

The sun coming in through the window catches on the bare skin of Mark’s arm, casting a pattern that Donghyuck wants to trace, brush his lips against. “You said that to her?”

“Mmm.” 

“That takes guts.” His hand leaves Donghyuck’s thigh and comes up to sweep a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. “You’re strong.” 

It would have been enough to leave it there, at a different time, but Donghyuck’s said so many things today that one more couldn’t possibly kill him. He swallows, ducks his head. 

“And… I thought about you, actually.”

The blush rises in his cheeks as Mark freezes in his spot. “Really?” 

“Like... I don't know. I thought about how if I went back, I’d be leaving you, too, and that… scared me.” 

“Oh. Wow.”

The silence is thick and oppressive, and Donghyuck tries to ignore the blood rushing in his ears. “Sorry,” he offers pathetically, as if it doesn’t feel like the earth could crumble under him if he says any more. 

“No, it’s cool. Uh…” Mark scratches the back of his head, and Donghyuck looks up only briefly to see that he’s somehow turned beet red as well. “You know I meant it when I said I really liked you, right? Like, really meant it?”  
“You did?”

“Yeah, I don’t just cuddle anybody,” he says with a nervous giggle, and Donghyuck’s stomach flips. “Anyway, I’m glad we’re talking about this now, because I would have been dancing around the issue for, like, the next three months or something.”

It’s not how he expected the conversation to go, but Donghyuck scoots closer, finally regaining the courage to look at him. 

His heart is hammering against his chest, and he wonders if Mark’s is doing the same. “So do you remember when I said I could be yours?”

Mark bites his bottom lip. “Of course.”

“I want to be,” he breathes. 

Fingers brush and cup his cheek, and Donghyuck leans into Mark’s kiss, an answer to the question he’d been asking himself since the moment they met. He belongs here, completely and absolutely, his hands fisted in the front of Mark’s shirt like they were always meant to be there, words giving way to lips crushing so hard against each other they might bruise, _I know, I know, I know_. 

“Whatever this is,” Mark murmurs against his mouth when they’ve reluctantly parted for air, “I want it too. All of it.” 

He ends up in Mark’s lap like the first time he took him home, though it’s less frantic and more feeling, relearning every spot they can touch with their lips, the way they press and dip into each other, every inch, every moment felt and passed by in a single breath. _Whatever this is_ , it’s warm, familiar, and the thrumming in Donghyuck’s ears and Mark’s steady hand on the small of his back are beautiful. For once, finally, he’s running far and fast into what he wants, no longer falling but jumping into it all, letting it fill him and bloom and burst into fireworks behind his eyelids.

Mark’s voice is scratchy. “I’m going to be a horrible at this, you know.”

Donghyuck snickers, mouth pressed flush against the skin of his collarbone. “Wow, no need to be so confident.” 

“No, seriously, I’ve been told that before.” He rests his chin on top of Donghyuck’s head. “I’m not romantic enough for a lot of people, and I might forget your birthday at some point, but I don’t mean it like that, and—”

“Then I’ll be a good enough boyfriend for the both of us,” he interrupts, tugging on Mark’s ear and making him squirm and laugh. “I’m fully prepared to pick up _your_ slack.” 

“You’d better be,” Mark says, punctuating it with a kiss to the forehead, and Donghyuck just holds him tighter,  cupping each other, bright and unburdened like an outpouring of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll try not to take a million years on the next chapter (which will probably be the second to last, aghh!)... again sorry it took this long and i hope it was worth the wait
> 
> as a reminder, i'm over on [twitter](http://twitter.com/transhyuck) and [curiouscat](http://curiouscat.me/transhyuck), come say hello!!


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